


No Step Had Trodden Black

by Stressedspidergirl



Series: That Has Made All the Difference [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Healing, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Sex, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, really it's just people trying to take care of their ornery witcher who isn't having it, until finally he caves in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stressedspidergirl/pseuds/Stressedspidergirl
Summary: Dandelion, Yennefer, and Ciri put together a plan to rescue Geralt from Nilfgaard's dungeons.They don't find exactly what they're expecting, but they'll do anything to help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: That Has Made All the Difference [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695964
Comments: 217
Kudos: 224





	1. The Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Ruusverd, thank you thank you thank you. Thank you again. Not enough thanks can be said. Thank you.

Dandelion pulls at the livery awkwardly, not sure he fills it in properly. They'd kill a few guards and had done their best to put him in the uniform that fit him best. They also hoped no one would notice a few missing guards, what with there being a war on, and plenty of dangerous prisoners. 

He has but one job, to keep the talisman Yen has given him safe on his person, and to find Geralt. Well, perhaps it's then three jobs. If he dies, the talisman stops working, so his task is also to survive. His second task is then to find Geralt, and then his third overarching task is to not lose the talisman. 

Once he's found the witcher, Ciri and Yennefer will follow the talisman to them, leaving a trail of blood and death in their wake. Yennefer was ready to simply destroy the castle brick by brick until they handed Geralt over. But on the off chance they would kill him rather than give him back, they had decided to try starting with stealth. They didn't have to finish that way, though. 

Dandelion thinks he does an alright job of things, he manages to say he's new and on his way to the dungeons, he's there to guard. They needed backup this past month since catching a witcher. He finds out that Geralt has killed well over fifteen men, twice he managed it even while tied to a table. Dandelion isn't sure how, but he assumes some asshole leaned in close enough to bite. He knows Geralt survived a striga by biting her, once. He has no doubts his lover would do whatever it took to survive. Or, to prompt a quick death if necessary. 

He also finds out, from the man guarding the main doors to the dungeons, that the witcher has told them nothing. They have tortured him until he has screamed himself hoarse and they're running out of ideas. In thirty days he's given them nothing useful. He's told them his name. He's told them the name of his horse. He doesn't know where the horse is. When they ask about Cirilla he has no idea who she is. He can't tell them where she is because he's never met her. 

Ludicrous, they point out, since he also denies having ever met Yennefer of Vengerberg or the famed poet Dandelion, either. Everyone knows he's slept with the witch and that the poet is his traveling companion. He does his best to laugh about this with the guard, it must be any day now the witcher will break, and he has to play along. There, that's his fourth task, part of the stay alive bit.

_Do not give away you are not one of them. You must be as callous and cold as they are. You are joining torturers, and you will see horrible things. You must hold fast and hold the line until help arrives._

He manages to poison the ale and takes some petty satisfaction from that. A few less people for the women to kill, at least. Anyone who drinks that ale will die a very unpleasant death. They know he has poison. It's for himself if he's trapped, mostly. Or Geralt if he's in too many pieces to be saved. For a dying man, a high enough dose would bring a merciful death rather than a slow agonizing one. Dandelion knows roughly about how much it would take to kill himself or Geralt within seconds, rather than an hour or thereabouts. He can't have the poisoned guards raising the alarm right away. He has to find Geralt first. 

Right now, all he knows is that Geralt of Rivia lives, and that they have had to be inventive and it's done them no good. He has no idea what condition he'll find his lover in, and he swallows the bile rising in his throat and presses down the corridor. _Be_ _strong_ , _he needs you. Be strong, they all need you._ There's no screaming, at least not from Geralt, but Dandelion almost does when he turns the corner and claps eyes on his friend.

The witcher is so filthy he's not sure it's even Geralt at first. But there's some scars visible in the mess and he recognizes those. The man in front of him hangs from shackles, his scalp shaved, or perhaps the hair torn away, there's so much blood the bard can't tell. There are some chunks of what he thinks are hair still attached to the scalp, but with all the blood that the bard can’t be truly sure. His hands are bloodied, as are his feet and Dandelion isn't sure he has all his fingers and toes because he can’t see them all clearly under the viscous mess of congealing blood. _Who would have thought he had so much blood in him?_

He swallows again, smiles, and joins the group of guards to 'watch.' The talisman is already active, it takes no need of him to do anything else. Once he stops moving, Ciri and Yennefer will move in. In essence, Geralt will betray Ciri to Nilfgaard. But they won't see it coming and none of them will live to tell the tale of it, either. The only cold comfort he has is that the womenfolk are now on their way to his location. 

"How long's he gonna hold up before he passes out?" Dandelion forces out in a crude tone, acting like he's enjoying it as best he can. "It's less fun if he faints, don't you think?"

They've found a way to cut into the witcher without going too deep. The gouges will cause pain but he won't bleed out from them. Not yet. There's so much blood the room stinks of it and it takes all his will not to vomit. There's a filthy table nearby covered in various tools that have seen recent use. Geralt isn't their only prisoner and the room reeks of human misery. He can see more than just blood streaking the table, and swallows down bile. Thanks be to Melitele, Yennefer told him to eat light. _Enough not to faint, so little you can't puke it up._

"He'll hold up a while. This'n's fun, never had someone so capable of taking so much before. Plus, he kills e'ry time he has a chance. We took some of his hide for that, though. E’ry time. Can't let him do that for free. We'll break him yet. Bit by bit."

"As you should've," Dandelion forces a grin. He hopes it's a grin. Perhaps it's just a grimace. 

"First time one o'us put'm in 'is place, 'e kilt 'em later, din't he?" The tallest guard asks another. 

"Then we beat him so bad he learned his place and didn't try it again." 

"You wanna take a turn?" One offers him a blade. Dandelion almost vomits right there. He takes it, unsure of what else to do. What else can he do? He can't cut Geralt with it, he knows that much. He can't pass it back now. _Sorry Yennefer_ , he thinks to himself, thinking he's going to die here, but at least he could take one or two of the guards with him, perhaps. There's no way he can hurt Geralt, even if it is to maintain his cover. He can however stab a guard or two and go down fighting. The talisman would wink out but they'd have a last location to go off of. 

Make it easier for the sorceress and witcher girl to rescue Geralt. Fewer guards, easier rescue. Well worth his life. As he steels himself to attack, he turns at a sound. 

Then something happens that defies all logic. A blade comes out of the guard's eye, splitting his skull and socket before it flicks free and slides across the throat of his companion. Dandelion blinks against the spray of blood that bathes his face and clothes, and then starts searching dead bodies for the keys. When he risks a look up, he sees Ciri wielding her blade like Death itself. She must have cut down the guards around him. With a quick shake of his head he goes back to his task. If he thinks too much he’ll faint and that won’t do Geralt any good.

When he finds them, it takes a few tries to find the ones to Geralt's shackles, and he uncuffs his legs first, hoping Geralt might be able to stand. He hopes the witcher is just playing possum, rather than being too weak to move.

"Don't kill me Geralt, I'm here to help you," he hisses, just in case it's all an act. He winces when he finally pries the cuffs free, they'd dug deep into the skin, lacerating it and causing infection. "Oh Geralt," Dandelion moans, standing up to work the cuffs on his wrist free, as well. He barely turns in time to dodge an attack, the sound of boots on the bloody floor alerting him. Geralt, instead, takes a shallow slice that makes Dandelion hate himself. He could have taken it, it wasn't a kill strike. He shouldn't have moved; it was just instinct. He should have protected Geralt. 

Then the man behind him explodes in a shower of blood and flesh. Yennefer must have joined the fray. Dandelion blinks to clear his vision, disgusted, but his shirt is useless for cleaning his face. It's just as vile as the rest of him. He tries not to vomit, and then works Geralt's arm free. The witcher hangs limp from one arm, and Dandelion can see the strain in his shoulder socket. He does his best to hold Geralt up, since the witcher isn't doing anything for himself. Yennefer is there in an instant, bracing Geralt's body with hers as Dandelion works the cuffs free of the weeping skin of Geralt's wrist. 

Yennefer is shouting something, but it's not anything Dandelion processes as a language. He just feels pressure building in his eardrums. A spell, then, something powerful. It makes him feel sick and pressed in all around. She opens a portal and ushers him to get Geralt through it. Ciri follows next, and Yennefer screams something out that makes the bard think his head might explode, and he feels more than hears something break in the air itself. Yennefer steps into the portal and allows it to close, but he turns back in time to see a maelstrom of some kind and then there's nothing. 

Panting, he throws up on his own shoes, the magic and everything else too much for him to handle. 

"What did you do?!" Ciri half shouts, blood trailing down her neck from her ears. 

"I made sure no one will go in or out of that castle ever again," Yennefer says, rubbing bloody tears from her cheeks. She spits blood onto the ground and looks over at Dandelion. "Can you get him inside?" 

"Yes, although why you didn't just portal us in-" 

"In case the spell escaped in any part." 

"Well then-"

"It wouldn't work out here in plain air. It would need a building." 

"Ah. Well can't you just portal us now?" 

The witcher girl looks at him, raising an eyebrow before slipping under Geralt's other arm, causing him to groan. "The more you argue the longer he's out here exposed," she snaps. The wind snaps around him and he realizes they've stepped into the mountains. Ice and snow reign supreme. Smart of Yennefer, to find a place where there would be no passable trails to it, keeping them isolated for a while at least. 

Geralt can't, or won't, stand, and the two of them bear him between them as best they can. They try to keep his feet out of the snow and ice, but when Ciri takes a look, she thinks perhaps it would be better if they let him drag a bit. The ice might numb his wounds and slow the bleeding. 

When they reach the doors, she turns back to ask Yennefer if she has a key or something to get them in and sees that the sorceress has collapsed some distance behind them in a heap of black and white fabric and dark hair. She swears and leaves the bard to hold Geralt alone as she rushes back to rouse Yennefer and get her up to the keep, too. It takes her a few moments, but she manages, and Yennefer staggers with her help to the door, mumbles a spell and they creak open allowing them to enter before sealing again behind them. 

"Hold him up," Yennefer demands, and runs a hand over his neck and back, checking for any reason they can't move him. She feels some ribs grate in his sides, and knows they need to be careful they don't knock the bones loose into his organs. But his spine seems undamaged, they shouldn't have to fear paralyzing him. His neck is badly bruised, but the bones seem intact. Her magic is mostly spent, thanks to her temper more than actual need. She feels a bit foolish, but they have enough medicaments to start him healing while she recharges. 

She slips one of his arms over her shoulders, and Ciri takes the other while Dandelion carefully lifts him behind the knees so they can get him somewhere he can be cleaned up. He doesn't so much as twitch until they lay him down on a table. They wince, knowing lacerated flesh is touching the wood, but there's not much they can do till they can see all of it. The floors are stone, and there's plenty of water to be drawn, and so they dump buckets over him. The table might be ruined, but that's the least of anyone's concerns. Rinsing the blood doesn't do much to show them anything, there's too many burns, raw spots, bruises, and other damage to even begin to know what to heal. When they turn him onto his front, trying to get a look at his back Dandelion vomits again, unable to help himself. 

Some of the skin had decided to stick to the table slightly and hangs in strips and rags over his back. Yennefer begins doing her best to gently piece the skin back together. It's an unpleasant task and she's deeply grateful when Ciri joins her.

"We might have to cut all this away, if it isn't healthy enough to go back," Ciri says quietly. "I can try stitching it, but I'm afraid it'll just go septic and make him sicker. But it's such a mess I can't tell if there's still blood flow to it or not." 

"I don't know how to get him clean without hurting him worse, Ciri, we have to stop some of this bleeding." 

"I know," she says, clever hands washing his wounds as quickly as she can without hurting him. He starts to twitch more, and they think he might be rousing. Dandelion leans in to try and tell him to be still and receives a headbutt for his troubles.

Geralt's entire body swamps itself with panic when he finds himself face down, for all nothing is binding his arms or legs. No more. He'll die first, and he attacks the closest person, desperately trying to get his limbs under his body before they can bind him. He manages to snarl, lifting his head to get a better view of the situation. 

"Stop!" Yennefer shouts, watching the bard dance back clutching his face. He holds up a hand to indicate he's alright, nothing broken. He's not even sure his nose is bleeding any, for all it stings. Geralt is off his game. She catches Geralt's head, stopping him from attacking again, he's too weak to get up on his own, thankfully. "Stop, we rescued you, we got you out, Geralt. It's alright now. It's going to be alright." 

He stills, unable to see her through his swollen eyelids. He can't see any of them. Thankfully he can still hear and smell. But mostly all he smells is blood and burned flesh. He'll need a bit for his nose to clear out before that'll be a helpful sense, but he knows when they're close versus when they're far and even badly bruised and swollen shut, his eyes tell him when shadows cross them. 

He snorts blood trying to clear his nostrils so he can smell properly. It does him no good. He tries again, desperately trying to get more air into his lungs. It hurts to breathe. And the more alert he feels the more he realizes he can hardly breathe at all. Geralt can only feel pain. His entire body is overwhelmed with it. Water dripping off his skin is agony, the air across his flesh, his broken nose throbs horribly in time with his heartbeat. If he had anything in his stomach he'd vomit. He tries to lick his lips, knowing he's drooling blood and spittle, but he can't close his mouth. It's too swollen. 

Yennefer can tell he's evaluating his situation. "If you let us clean you up, we won't tie you up. If you fight it, we will tie you down and patch you up anyway. You can hate us later, Geralt, but I'd rather you were alive to do it." 

He feels sick to his stomach. If they're patching him up any it means they went too far torturing him and they're going to have to fix him up and start again. And that puts him further from death. He can't risk that. He doesn't want to risk that. No, he needs to force them to kill him. It's impossible to get up, all he can do is twitch his muscles helplessly, trying to stand up. But all he can do is lie there, panic spreading across his entire body until when he feels a hand on his arm, he faints. 

When he wakes up next, he's in a bed, and he feels constricted. He doesn't realize it's all just bandaging. He can hardly smell for the overpowering scent of herbs filling the room. His skin aches and burns, and every part of him longs for death. Or unconsciousness. His head throbs, and he wishes they'd done something for the pain if they were going to set him up for another month's torture all over again. 

He can hear the voices, the enjoyment destroying a witcher gave them. _A monster's more fun, lasts longer boys. Look, it's even harder to make one scream, but you can. You can even get one to beg, see, witchers can talk. You wanna keep your tongue witcher? Then you know what to use it for. Otherwise I'll take it for meself anyway and feed it to you later._

He shifts, feeling a bit stronger. Someone in the room moves and he freezes. "You're awake," Yennefer breathes a sigh of relief. "We weren't sure how long it would take. I imagine you feel awful. I'm so sorry, if we'd given you anything for the pain we were afraid you'd die. The pain might be all that's keeping you here with us." 

"With who?" he forces past swollen lips. He has no idea who this woman is or what she wants. 

"I know you can't see very well, but surely you remember.... It's... It's Yennefer. And Dandelion's here with us, and Ciri." 

He closes his eyes. "I've told you I don't know them. No matter what you do to me, I can't tell you who they are or where they are because I've never met them. Or heard of them." His words blur together, he barely has the capability to make the words at all at the moment. Would it kill them to give him some water? 

"I'm not... I'm not here to hurt you," she whispers miserably. She hadn't imagined he'd lost his memories of them. She'd been somewhat afraid their location would be revealed and put Ciri at risk, but she hadn't anticipated this. She reaches out to stroke his hair and he pulls away as best he can, a soft pained mewl accompanying the movement. She drops her hand. "We won't hurt you here. Well, other than to clean out your wounds and bind them. Some need stitching and that will be unpleasant. I think you might have some broken bones that need setting, and I imagine that will hurt, too. We can't tell under all the filth. And rags just aren't getting the job done. It's been too long since anyone cleaned you up." 

He wants to tell her they had, not that long ago. Rough brushes and ice water. They'd scrubbed him raw, the bristles scraping over burns and sliced flesh indiscriminately. It had just been more to humiliate him, he thinks, than to clean him. 

"Once we get you cleaned, and bandaged, we won't do anything you don't want us to beyond maintaining the healing of your injuries. No one will touch you. No one will hurt you. Once a day you'll submit to having your bandaging checked, and possibly changed, and wounds cleaned and then you'll get food and be left in peace. That's all I'm asking from you. We're here to help you. We got you out of that dungeon. You will not be going back. Trust us until you remember. Or you're completely healed. We'll earn that trust." 

"Or?" He whispers.

She sighs. "Or we will truss you up like a turkey and care for you anyway, and once you're better or you remember we'll let you go. It'll all end up the same." 

"But all the same I'm a captive," he says bitterly, barely able to slur out the words. The scab in his lip splits and he tastes blood. 

"I suppose yes. I don't see how you'd get very far with your injuries, or without supplies, or being able to see, not knowing who your friends are or where you are, through the mountains in their coldest season with no mount or anything else... but you could try. I think it seems less horrible to let people care for you, then to go on your way when you're able." 

"Except than there is no going on my way, is there?" his voice shakes a little. "Once I'm better enough, it'll be right back on the rack, feet to the coals, stripping my skin off in pieces and fucking me with whatever seems handy." He won't beg. He won't lower himself that far. But he doesn't have to take more without complaint. 

Yennefer chokes back a sob. "No, it won't. It won't be like that at all." If it weren't for her abilities she's not sure she'd understand him. Part of it might be the broken nose and split lips, but she’s terrified his nigh unintelligible speech might be due to many missing teeth.

He ignores her, testing out his muscles as best he can. He can sort of push himself off the bed. They've got a blanket over him. He has no idea if there's clothes around. But if she's telling the truth about the mountain passes, then no, he isn't going anywhere at all. 

"Geralt, I've known you for years. I've loved you that whole time. I wouldn't.... I wouldn't hurt you." 

"I don't remember you, and I don't see what kind of game this is, but you're one of the people they wanted when they were flaying me alive. You'll have to excuse me if I don't want much to do with you. If it even is you they were after." He can't get up. He's too weak to get up. Shame makes his eyes burn, and he gives up. Perhaps she'll hurt him less than the others. She's got to be weaker than the guards as it is, so she shouldn't be able to do as much damage, he hopes. 

Ciri comes in with food, her timing excellent. Yennefer's face is a cold mask, and the girl knows there's no real good news to be had. She sets the tray down, and Yennefer helps her put pillows under Geralt's back and head so he can sit to eat. He refuses, mostly, distrusting their motivations. They can hold him up but not force him to partake. It dribbles over his chin when he turns his head away. Even if he is desperate for both food and drink. Better to die than live another thirty days in hell. 

"There's nothing wrong with it," Ciri tells him, taking a taste herself. “It’s a bit bland, I suppose. But that’s because they were starving you.” She tries again, holding out the spoon. He can’t move his arms enough to take it from her or knock it away, his hands just twitch uselessly. He turns his face. “Papa, please,” she whispers. 

Confused, his brow creases, and he tries to look at her. He can’t see very well. There’s blood filling his vision -what little he has with his eyes swollen almost completely shut- but there’s a girl there, he knows. He tries to get her scent, but he can mostly only smell himself. 

“It’s me,” she reassures him, not that it means anything to him. She gently touches his cheek. “I bandaged you up before, took care of you. You took me to Kaer Morhen, I was to be a witcher. I am a witcher. Mutations or no. It's Ciri.”

_Child of destiny. Child surprise. You can never escape the girl in the woods. She is your destiny. The girl in the woods is your destiny. You can’t escape fate._

Memories flutter around him and he feels ill. He doesn’t know who she is, the name Ciri doesn’t mean anything to him. But something about her is definitely his.

“Sit with me,” he asks softly, his voice shaking. She does. 

“I will stay if you eat,” she informs him, and he opens his mouth when she brings up the spoon. She tries to check he has all of his teeth, but he gets notably anxious when she tries to look around. She's especially careful given the amount of damage done to his face. She's half terrified she's going to accidentally tap him with the spoon and split his lips open all over again. Or hit a loose tooth or a lacerated gum. 

He manages a few bites of the soup, and perhaps a mouthful of bread before he’s had enough. She doesn’t try to force it. He drinks some water, his swollen and split lips making it hard for him not to dribble it all over himself. She wipes it away without comment. She watches his throat move as he swallows laboriously. Even his neck is badly bruised and she can't imagine the pain he's suffering just to get a few sips of water. 

When Dandelion comes into the room to check on things, Geralt tries to move away. He can recognize the footsteps of the man who last held the knife. 

“Geralt you’re awake!” His voice is joyous. They’d said no more torture, but they were lying. He thought he’d known the girl somehow, that she was his somehow, but maybe not. Not unless she’s Death herself come to take him. 

He manages to get off the bed in a desperate attempt to get up, ignores the fact his bladder gives out at the impact when he hits the ground with his body rather than his feet. In agony he bites his lip rather than scream when his back bangs against the floor. Some escape. Hands pull him up, voices swirl around him and he loses consciousness rather than try and listen. 

“What the fuck was that?” Yennefer asks, not expecting an answer. She works with Dandelion's help to gently turn him and check the bleeding that's restarted. "How the hell did he even move?" 

“Dandelion scared him,” Ciri explains, not that it’s really explaining anything. There’s no good reason why. Nothing has had reason or sense since Nilfgaard attacked and her grandmother died. The only thing that had made sense was Geralt. His body broken and bloody like this seems like the final nail in the coffin. There's nothing good left. Not if Geralt doesn't know them. Another cruel joke played on her by the universe. 

“I have no idea,” Dandelion shrugs. “Unless all he can remember is that I was there with him in that room. But I helped get him out, surely he knows that. And he knows me,” the bard puffs up indignantly. 

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t know any of us.” 

“What?” Dandelion’s voice is very small. “His only memory… but I got him out. I undid the fetters…” 

"He was unconscious when we recovered him. I doubt he remembers being freed at all." 

“He thinks we’re healing him just to hurt him again,” Ciri says quietly, her eyelashes dark with tears. “He doesn’t know me,” she sobs silently. 

“He will,” Yennefer reassures her. “He almost did. You’re familiar to him, Ciri. He just doesn’t know why. Not yet.” 

They get him back onto the bed, wincing when his muscles flinch and twitch. He can feel pain even as out of it as he is. It feels wrong to wash him and touch him when he's so afraid of it and unaware. It's not as if they can leave him covered in mess and expect his wounds to heal. Rebandaging him seems almost pointless, there's so much filth despite their attempts to clean him that they aren't sure they're helping much. 

"We just need to keep him alive long enough he can build his strength a little." Yennefer very gently pinches some skin on his arm, watching it take ages to lie flat again. "We have droppers, yes?"

"I believe so," Ciri says. 

"Find one, find some water. He needs some desperately." 

Ciri flees the room. 

"He couldn't have thrown himself off the side of the bed with the rugs?" Dandelion asks dryly. He lightly strokes a bloody lock of hair back from Geralt's forehead. 

"If he had, we'd have to clean piss out of it." 

"As opposed to what? Mopping it off the floor?"

"It was mostly blood anyway. Much harder to clean out of fabrics. We just need a few rags and some water and it's as if it never happened. " 

"No, no it's not. Not really."

"Dandelion, he has no control over much of anything right now. That much pain and landing flat like that. I very much doubt with all the damage he's suffered that's the last time we'll have to wipe him down."

"Don't say that."

"No one's asking you to do it."

"That's not what I mean, Yennefer. I mean don't tell me he's hurt so bad he won't be moving on his own tomorrow. Don't tell me he'll be scared of us tomorrow. Don't tell me this will take time and he might continue to struggle like this. Don’t tell me he won’t be able to stand up and relieve himself without help. Don’t tell me he’ll have to keep suffering pain like this for another day. It's horrible. If you tell me this is the first time of many I might curl up under the table with wine and never come out."

"I will use all my magic and learning to help him heal as quickly as possible. Nothing comes without a price. I can't magic him better without pulling on his body's reserves. Or something else. My own, another living thing. There must be balance. I will do what I can as I can. And he will recover. As he does. Soon enough he will be on his feet bitching at you as he always does. Even one more day of this would feel like years, bard. Toughen up. None of us have time for you to fall apart. You owe Geralt better than that."

When Ciri comes rushing back in, saddle bag in hand, Yennefer looks up. Dandelion continues to watch Geralt, listening to the wheezing in his breath. 

"Ciri, every few minutes, give him a little water. Not much. Not even the whole dropper."

"Yes, ma'am," she bobs her head. She recognizes Yennefer's no-nonsense tone and responds how she used to when the sorceress was merely her teacher, and not her mother, too. Ciri lifts the water pitcher and settles it in her lap next to Geralt on the bed. As instructed, she dribbles some into his mouth at regular intervals. 

Yennefer finds some rags and mops up the floor, cleaning away the blood. Dandelion stares helplessly around the room. 

"Go get cleaned up," Yennefer snaps, galvanizing him into action. "You're still in the bloody livery of the castle. In clothes soaked in blood and your own vomit. He'll fear you less if you look like your usual foppish self."

"I suppose I'd forgotten." He looks at his hands and sees them shake and realizes he can smell the vomit. He hadn’t even thought about his clothes, it had been far more important to get Geralt stable and taken care of. 

Ciri watches him leave in a fugue state and hopes he'll get himself out to rights. She'd at least washed her face and arms before bringing him food. 

"I'm going to clean up now. When I'm done, you go. Don't give him the whole pitcher. Maybe two cups worth at most. He'll sick up if you give him too much." 

"Yes, Yennefer." If it weren't for the whistle in his breathing she'd feel as if she were giving water to a corpse. 

It feels like years before Yennefer is back, hair still damp. Ciri slides off the bed without disturbing a single wrinkle in the sheets and disappears to go get cleaned and changed. 

Dandelion comes back in. "Anything I can do?"

"Get some sleep. Someone should sit with him at all hours. Make sure he keeps breathing. You take the next shift."

"Alright. Does it matter much which room?"

"Don't be an idiot. Pick one close by," she says crossly. 

The bard gestures rudely at her but leaves the room. He picks one across the hall and two down. Ciri probably will need to be closest. Provided she'll even consent to stay in another room. He doesn't bother to wonder about how well kept the castle is, for a summer residence, and falls asleep gratefully on top of the sheets.

Yennefer takes a deep breath, miserable, and pulls the velvet cords from the curtains. With a few whispered words, she secures them to the bed posts, ends knitting into themselves to form a seamless loop. Tears fill her eyes as she loops the other ends over Geralt's wrists and ankles. They're snug enough he can't slip free, but loose enough they won't do any damage to his already injured limbs. "I'm sorry, Geralt. We can't risk a repeat of earlier." Not that he can hear her. 

She takes her time to work on healing him a little with magic. The Source is there, strong within the walls of the castle. While she needs to rest to restore her abilities fully, she can borrow more magic if she’s willing to take longer to recover. Right now, he needs her more than she needs rest.

He stays unconscious for days. She has time to go and recover their horses by portal, and to sleep heavily, herself. She slowly recovers from overusing her magic and does her best to keep him alive and comfortable as he begins to slowly heal.

His few brushes with consciousness are violent, and unpleasant for all of them. The ties that hold his limbs stop him from injuring himself again even as they tear into his family’s hearts. When Dandelion watches over him, he is restive and cries out in his sleep far more than he does with the others.

Heartsick and wearied, they do their best to care for him, and to put him back together.

-

Looks like I'm heading back to work in person, and they're telling us they'll aim to keep us 3 feet apart and can't provide us PPE of any kind. We'll need to purchase our own. So if you enjoy the fic, think about leaving a comment. Or have tag suggestions, or additional necessary content warnings I miss, etc. But basically life is a mess, I appreciate any and all feedback you might want to share. <3 I will again try and keep a weekly update schedule, at least until things get insane. Be safe guys.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of assault. preceded by italics so you can skip that paragraph. it's 1 mention no description.
> 
> And if you read the first part, about the same level blood/gore as that fic. 
> 
> Thanks again to my beta. And to people who have commented. I know it's not really part of fandom to do that anymore, and so I really appreciate it. <3

When Geralt regains consciousness, he still can’t move his arms or legs, but this time it’s because they’re tied. The bindings are gentle, and don’t scrape at his skin, but all the same he can’t move. Panic crawls into his throat and down to settle low and hateful in his belly. He’s a witcher. He’s strong. He can get out of this. He has to get somewhere. He has to protect someone. His destiny is waiting.

He does his best to assess his condition. His entire body aches, and he still can’t open his eyes. His breathing is a hoarse whistle in and out of his nose, and his throat feels raw when he tries to breathe through his mouth. While he can tell he’s in better condition than he was before, panic throbs through him along with pain, an unpleasant echo to his heartbeat.

It takes a moment for him to realize he’s tied down to a bed. There’s a pillow under his head and a sheet thrown over his body. He does his best to look around despite his swollen-shut eyes and can’t tell much of anything. There’s a window giving off light, so it’s day and the room must be more expensive than any of the cells he’d been in. Perhaps the captain who wanted him questioned had him brought to his chambers? Geralt doesn’t know, and he can’t get in enough air to feel like he’s truly breathing instead of just gasping.

The bed is damp under him and he has no idea if water has been thrown on him, he’s soiled himself, or if it’s blood or sweat or some combination thereof. If nothing else at least he doesn’t hear anyone else in the room with him, not even the scurry of mice. The chamber is blessedly still and silent, allowing his thoughts to race as he tries to figure out how to free himself. But nothing he does makes the bindings give him even an inch of movement, even though they don’t pull on his aching joints. Magic. Whoever’s done this has power.

When someone comes into the room, he tenses, startled. He thrashes, or tries to, but the bindings are firm and prevent him from moving. He bares his teeth, determined to take a pound of flesh before they cut into him again. He will not submit to this again. Never again.

“Geralt, it’s Ciri,” a voice says softly. A girl then, not a child, but not a woman. Not yet. “We had to, you tried to get up again yesterday and your back… it took us hours…” her voice cracks. “You won’t heal if you won’t stop fighting us.” 

“Why would I want to heal?” he pants. He doesn’t remember moving the day before. He’s lost all track of time. Geralt can’t smell her, there’s too much dried blood still clogging up his nose. He can sort of see the outline of her body, shadow against light, when she’s in front of the window, but not much more than that. Just the shape of her. Perhaps he can keep her talking long enough to distract her and get out of the binding somehow. He tries to twist and turn to no avail. The most he can do is flex his muscles and feel stitches and bandaging pull as fiery pain screams through his battered body. “Just so you can start all over?” Geralt wonders if his words are even intelligible, he’s not sure he can understand himself. He turns his head to track her as she moves closer and he feels spittle drip over the corner of his mouth and run across his cheek. If he hurt less he’d have the energy to be humiliated.

“So you can ....” her voice stops as her throat squeezes. She has food for him, that’s what matters. He needs to eat, or he won’t heal. “So you can be you, Geralt, so you can remember me,” she pleads. “I brought food.” She settles by him on the bed, ignoring the way he tries to get away from her and can’t. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh and he starts to sweat. She doesn’t touch him, doesn’t move, or twitch.

She remembers in a rare moment, him showing her the best way to trap butterflies.

 _You hold still, and you wait and you don’t do anything to frighten them. You have to have something sweet that they want, and if you do, they’ll land on you and you can see them up close. But the minute you break, or twitch, they’re gone, unless they know the sugar won’t end in death, and then they might stay. But you have to make sure to not touch them, just let them touch you_.

She stays without moving, the smell of food rising up from the tray, and she waits until he relaxes just a little. She looks at his lips, and sighs. They’d hit him quite a lot, to cause the splits she sees, along with the swelling. At least lying on his back he isn’t drooling, she has a feeling if they’d put him on his stomach he’d have soaked the pillow, seeing as how he can’t quite close his mouth. Unfortunately, when he turns his head it’s another matter, and she resists the urge to blot the bloodied spittle off his cheek.

“I have mashed potatoes this time,” she offers. 

“I suppose they’re weevils with seasoning?” he fights his swollen mouth for each word. At least his tongue doesn't feel like dried leather in his mouth anymore. They've given him water. He feels more alert overall. It isn't ideal, considering now he's all the more aware of the room spinning and the pounding incessant agony coursing through his body. 

“Do they smell like weevils?” she asks, dipping a finger in and tasting it. It tastes fine to her, a hint of wild garlic with some bits of onion, and plenty of butter. “I think it tastes nice,” she tells him. “Try it?” she offers, discarding the spoon in her hand to use her finger again and then offer it to him. It’s bizarre, she knows, but she’s afraid he’ll hurt his mouth on the utensil. And if he’s missing teeth, if they were ripping his teeth out… or cutting up his tongue.

He speaks relatively well, but his mouth is so swollen, his jaw so bruised. His neck, his chest… no part of him is unscathed. She knows Yennefer is waiting until he can stand to bathe him properly and check him over more. He’s got blood all around his nail beds, hands and feet, in all the creases in his skin and pores, they can’t seem to get him clean with rags no matter what they do. He’s got odd lumps and bubbles in his skin, Ciri is reminded of his scalp, months and months ago, and knows that they can’t cut out whatever’s in there this time, not yet. He won’t understand they’re doing it to help him. He doesn’t trust them at all. 

He allows her to feed him by hand, feeling like that’s only proper for a monster, anyway. He doesn’t understand that it’s because she’s afraid of hurting him. Or that it’s because she’s hoping by showing him trust with her skin, he won’t feel so afraid. He could bite her and take her finger off, or badly damage her hand. But he doesn’t. He allows her to slowly feed him a little bread, a little potato, and some vegetable in a pod she cracks open and gives him the beans from. Or peas, she isn’t really sure, she’s never seen it before. Yennefer had just told her not to feed him the pod, so she isn’t. 

When she notices his nostrils flaring, she knows he’s trying to get her scent. She leans over him, making sure her hair hangs over his face, too. She knows hair and clothing hold scents better than ordinary skin. They’d gotten quite a lot of blood out of his nose one of the times he’d been unconscious. And his nose had been broken, so setting it had then caused infinitely more bleeding, Ciri has no idea if he can smell, but he can at least breathe. Not well, if the soft whistling sound he's making is any indication, but enough to stay alive. It's certainly better than it had been. Before, it had been agonizing to listen to him struggle for air. 

“Did they really feed you weevils?” Ciri asks, not really wanting the answer to be what she knows it will be. 

“I hope it was weevils,” he answers, still trying to breathe deep. “I know you,” Geralt tells her softly. “I know you.” 

“I know, I know you do. I’m your destiny, Geralt. I’m your witcher girl, you found me. You found me, over and over again, you came for me. When you got taken, I came for you. People bound by destiny will always find each other.” She reaches out to touch his cheek and he flinches, and she pulls her hand away, then frowns. Slower, this time, she gently eases her hand up to his face, gently lets the back of her knuckles brush over his cheekbone, and barely, barely, lets her fingertips drag through the hair over his ear. There’s not much, it’s still growing in. There’s horrible stretches of bloodied scalp where they’d ripped the hair from his head, probably grabbing it in a fight or to drag him by. Yen isn’t too sure and he isn’t up to tell them, and none of them truly want to know. She gently strokes the few unbruised parts of his face, and that same little patch of hair, the soft bristles almost invisible against his scalp. 

He quiets under her touch, he had flinched every time initially, but with enough patience he no longer expects a blow from her. “I would never hurt you on purpose,” Ciri reminds him. “When we spar, it’s different, but we’re not trying to hurt each other, not really. For all that time in the woods you belted me hard enough to leave a mark.” 

Geralt flinches when she moves her hand again, expecting her to exact some kind of revenge. She doesn’t, just gently resumes touching his hair. Ciri can feel her heart shattering into pieces at the idea he’s afraid of her. That he thinks she would hurt him on purpose when he was helpless. She ignores the tears running down her cheeks and keeps up the gentle stroking. “I had trouble sitting my horse for days, thank you very much. When you’re up on your feet again, and we resume training I’d very much like it if you didn’t do that again.” 

“I doubt very much I’ll be up on my feet again,” he tells her, for all he knows her scent now. Somewhere in his brain, locked away, it pulls on memories, but he can’t access them. He put it all away to keep them safe, and now he can’t remember. He has no idea how to unlock anything, but he knows she’s at least part of the key. “Why can’t I remember you?” he asks her. 

Slowly, she lets her fingertips wander to the crown of his head, there’s a dent there. “This, that’s what Yennefer thinks. Or perhaps this one,” she touches the other side of his head, where the skull is dented again. Ciri does her best to ignore the way he flinches in pain at the touch. “When her magic is strong enough, she’s going to fix it. She doesn’t know if it’ll help your memories, but she thinks it’ll bring the swelling down in your face and make your head hurt less. If nothing else you might be more amenable to us helping you.” 

She kisses his cheek, lips as gentle as the wings of a butterfly as she gets up. “I have to take the tray back. I’ll come sit with you if you agree to let Yennefer look over your back.” 

“I know what that means,” he mumbles, fading into sleep. “I’d rather not. I don’t feel good that you’d come to watch it, either.” 

“She’s not going to hurt you,” Ciri reminds him. “Not like what you think, anyway. And we’ll keep Dandelion out since he seems to upset you.” 

“He was going to cut me up just like the others,” Geralt’s voice fades. 

“If you can promise not to hurt yourself, we can untie you while we look over your back,” she suggests. “You’re not strong enough to hurt us yet.” 

“Won’t matter either way,” he argues, chin drooping as he falls asleep. 

She shakes her head, eyes burning. Taking the tray to the kitchen doesn’t do much to distract her from their conversation, and as she walks back towards his room, she suddenly has to run for a privy to vomit. He’d expected them to feed him bugs or worse. He expected Yennefer to do more than just beat him, being tied face down terrified him. Dandelion was someone he saw as a torturer and not his lover. And he still didn’t know her.

Those dents in his skull make her sick to see, the shorn hair and bloody scalp hides nothing, and she can’t believe he survived them. Yennefer can barely believe it, herself, but she’s already done some magic to pull the skull away and stop some of the swelling in his brain. 

When she goes back in, Geralt is clearly dreaming. He’s making noises that make Ciri sick to her stomach. She knows he’s reliving some of the torture. “Wake up,” she suggests softly, “wake up Geralt.” This is far worse than when he’d been sick and delirious. It had cut her to know he’d asked for his mother, but now he’s not asking for anything. He knows no help is coming. 

He snaps awake, panting, and doing his best to look around. He pulls on the binding again, wild with fear and pain. She settles next to him and he draws back his lips as best he can to bare his teeth. She’s relieved not to see any missing, but his face is so swollen she can’t tell if he has all his molars.

She isn’t afraid of him, and gently reaches out to touch that same spot of hair she’d stroked earlier. She can almost see the internal debate about if it was worth it to attack her or not before he remembers her from before. Remembers the touch from before. She quietly frees one of his arms, taking his hand in hers. His wrist is bandaged and the linen is already soiled. She winces and knows the magical bindings Yen is using won't hurt him or do more damage to his wrists. It still hurts her to see it. 

She looks over his hand, gently turning it in hers. He’s missing several nails and his fingers don’t look quite right to her. It’s hard to tell, but she thinks they cut his hands up, too, but the slices are thin enough she’s not truly sure. Either way she carefully holds his hand and braces herself for the thought he might try and attack her. 

When Yennefer comes in with a tray of supplies and a basin of warm water, she looks at Geralt’s freed arm in surprise. She hadn’t even expected him to regain consciousness if she’s being honest. Some part of her had fully expected he would slip away from them in the night, and that would be the end of it. He’d die never knowing he was safe. Her breathing catches and she bites her lip a moment before truly registering what she’s seeing.

Ciri looks at her, and she shrugs a shoulder. If he’s going to be docile, he’ll be docile, and that’s a good thing. 

With Ciri’s help, Yen undoes his bindings, and they carefully turn him over. His breathing gets frantic, but Ciri continually promises they’re just going to check his bandages. He’s bled through them but leaving him on his chest is just as painful, and clearly more dangerous. His broken ribs have started to heal where they should, but pressure on them in the wrong spot could undo all of that. Not to mention he is clearly terrified of what might be done to him while he’s face down. 

They change the bandages in near silence, other than muttering to him they won’t hurt him. The water in the basin is opaque by the time they finish trying to clean him off. Yennefer spreads a salve thinly over his torn flesh, trying not to get too much on, but too little will cause pain from her fingers trying to work it in. Then she lays down a loose swatch of fabric over his back before they gently rebind his wounds. Yennefer looks at the dried blood all over his hips and buttocks still, down the backs of his legs and over his feet…. They beat him, whipped him, and burned him, and that’s just all she can see immediately. They’ve kept his feet out from the bedding as much as possible, she can see he’d been burned and caned. But she suspects they did other things that hurt his spirit far more than they hurt his body. Ciri helps her ease him back over in silence, and then gently pull the blanket up over him. 

“Can we leave these off you?” Yennefer asks, holding up one rope. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. Ciri hadn’t lied to him. That hadn’t hurt any more than it had to. None of the pain had been caused with any pleasure or malice behind it. He can’t figure out how to get comfortable anyway. He’d like to be on his side, but he thinks he has broken ribs. 

“Then I will rebind you, so you can’t hurt yourself,” she offers gently, leaning over to kiss him. She stops when he flinches. She’d forgotten. Cursing herself silently, she slips the magical rope over his wrist. With a gesture it seals itself. She does this for his other arm, and then his legs. Tears run over her cheeks, but she ignores them to make sure he’s secure. She lightly touches a spot on his chest where the skin seems wrong, bubbled, and stretched in a way it shouldn’t, and she can see the edge of scar tissue. There’s no magical tracking, she’s checked. He’s safe from that. But who knows what’s in some of the sealed wounds? What they did to him on purpose to poison and injure him as he tried to heal. 

“Tomorrow, I should very much like to get you cleaned up. There are some other half healed wounds that we need to reopen. Something inside them is wrong. Can you trust us enough to let us do that? We will need the bard’s help. Mostly to keep you on your feet.” 

_Hold ‘im up so I can hit ‘im again. Hold ‘im steady now, damnit. Fuck all why ain’t you holdin’ his arms!? Fuckin’ bastard!_ The beating had been especially bad. They’d dropped him to the ground and kept going until someone with some sense called a halt. Then they’d availed themselves of his body until they were bored of it. Mostly since he’d had nothing left to give them in terms of a reaction. All he could do was lie there and struggle to breathe. And bleed. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer brings him back to the present. “We need to get you healing properly. We need water to clean all this out. You need some time to soak. The heat will feel vile on your burns, I don’t know what to do about that. But I promise you it’s necessary.” 

“At least I’ll die mostly clean,” he says in what he hopes is a scathing tone of voice rather than a scared one. 

Ciri touches his arm gently. He can smell vomit, but he’s not so sure it isn’t him. He doesn’t remember a lot, maybe he’s still missing chunks of time here and there.

“I’ll stay with you, for a bit. So you can sleep.” She looks up at Yennefer. “It’s okay Mama, I’ll stay.” 

Yennefer startles a bit, then cups the cub’s cheek with her hand. “Alright,” she agrees, kissing Ciri’s forehead. “I’ll bring you some more water, maybe you can get some more blood off him.” 

“I’ll try,” she promises. She sits with Geralt, holding his hand carefully until he falls asleep. He sleeps through Yennefer coming back into the room, and sleeps through Ciri easing a damp cloth over his hand, trying to see if it’s as badly hurt as she’s afraid it is. She can’t tell what’s bruising and what’s dirt and dried blood. 

When she cries, she cries silently, so she won’t wake him. He hasn’t slept peacefully since they’ve gotten him back. His screams had roused them all. And there was nothing they could do other than wake him up. When he wakes up next, his hand feels funny. It throbs miserably and he isn’t so sure it hasn’t been cut off, perhaps. He flexes it slightly to check, and groans when he feels his thumb move. There’s more bandaging. 

“You broke a few fingers,” Ciri mumbles. “Or they did. When you were having a nightmare, I reset them and bound them. I just felt since you were already reliving it at least it wouldn't add new pain. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you first. I thought...I don’t know. I know it wasn’t right, I’m sorry. I should have woken you and told you. I just didn't want you to remember me hurting you, even if it was just to fix your fingers.”

“It’s a memory I’d rather not have,” he admits. He raises his eyebrows in surprise when she frees his hand again. She eases down beside him, mindful not to lay on any part of him or touch him. She makes sure his arm is by his side, and just gently holds his hand. She knows his arms have to both ache from being tied out from his body. And from being chained up above his head. His shoulders… she can’t imagine the agony. She waits, unmoving, until he falls asleep again. 

She stays with him, doing her best to soothe his nightmares on her own. She would rather be with Yennefer or Dandelion, in a place she could grieve as loudly and openly as she wanted. There will be time for it, she knows. Just not yet. He’d been through so much to get to her, and then to protect her. Her father had been right to trust Geralt with the law of surprise, right to promise it to him. Geralt was a good papa, one her father would be pleased with, she thinks. He loves her. He always came for her, and he protected her. The least she can do is comfort him and ease the bad dreams through the night. 

When the sun rises, she leaves to get herself some food and use the privy. She comes back to find Yennefer freeing Geralt from his bonds and helping him use the chamber pot. He can barely stand on his own. She holds out a roll to Geralt once Yen eases him back down to sit on the edge of the bed. He picks at it listlessly, wishing he could stand up. 

The room is still mostly a blur of shadows and light, along with the people appearing in and out of it. His body trembles and shakes with exertion from having gotten up even for just a few moments. Geralt isn’t hungry, he finds, the meals he’s had keeping him full far longer than they would have before a month of near starvation took its toll.

Unable to even smell the bread properly, much less see it, he hopes it’s bread. It feels like bread and tears apart like it, too, littering flakes over his legs that he can feel resting against his skin.

“I was only gone long enough to piss and get a few rolls,” she tells Yen, feeling ashamed she left at all. 

“It’s as well,” Yennefer shrugs. She doesn’t feel as though Ciri did anything wrong leaving for a few moments. She drapes a blanket around Geralt’s shoulders as he eats, and he cringes away from her. With a heavy sigh, she drops to her knees between his legs, meeting his gaze. “I swear to you,” she traces a sign in the air between them, “I will not intentionally harm you in any way shape or form. I will do my best to heal you, and restore your memory, and I will not trap you here once you are truly well enough to leave on your own if that is your wish. And while I know that the process of healing can be painful, and thus might knowingly cause you some pain, that will be the only kind I cause. I will not strike you. I will not beat you. I will not raise my hand against you. Unless it is necessary to your healing and benefit, I will not touch you at all, provided you request it, until your memory is returned or you nullify this part of the spell with permission.” She lets the sign dissolve after it flares bright. “Will you believe me now? I will not hurt you.” She hates that he flinches from her. In just a few weeks they had taught him to be afraid of being touched. Hate sings in her heart. 

He doesn’t make the sign, but he holds up his hand weakly. “I will not attempt to escape you or fight you provided you continue to work to heal my injuries and no other harm comes to me, I promise.” 

She resists reaching out and leaves her hands folded in her lap. “Are you well enough we can get you downstairs?” she asks him. He nods, and she holds out her hands to help him stand, once she’s on her own feet. “Will you let the bard help you on the stairs?” 

“I will,” he says, and takes her hands. He allows her to pull him up, shaking violently. It hurts to walk. His feet still haven’t healed from what had been done to them. They feel wrong, almost like they aren’t attached to his body. They're puffy and bubbled and he can't seem to find his balance to stand. 

“He can carry you, if you’ll permit it,” Yennefer says. “He’s much stronger than he appears.” 

“Why?” 

“Your feet,” she says simply. She knows they caned the bottoms, and burned them, too. He can barely stand. 

“I don’t want him to touch me,” Geralt tells her. 

“You did say you would submit to his help. So will you?” 

“I do not consent to be carried.” 

“If you faint?” 

“Then, I suppose it will be acceptable.” He feels odd, requesting or telling anyone anything. He’s forgotten he was his own person, once. He waits for her to strike him, or attack him, or do something else. There’s nothing. They don’t bind his hands, or his legs, they don’t jeer at him or his body. If anything, she just tucks the blanket around him better, and she moves as if to do something he can’t see, and he recoils and she freezes. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, not telling him all she’d meant to do was kiss his cheek. Yennefer’s eyes flash in hatred, not at Geralt, and she squeezes her fist for a moment or two. Then she takes a breath and continues to help him stumble out of the room. So much is lost between them, now. If only she could kill all his torturers a second time. They hadn’t quite gotten Geralt back, not all of him. He had learned to be strong enough to allow her and Dandelion both to love him, he would learn again. He had to.

“Dandelion!” Ciri calls at the door, once she sees him, she goes back and starts gathering up all their supplies. She bundles them into a bag and then also pulls all the sheets and blankets from the bed. They’re disgusting, flaked with dried and fresh blood, dirt, pus and quite possibly piss. She’s not so sure after the beatings he’s taken he’s in total control of his bladder. She’s seen the bruising, and the burns, and the cuts, and she has a feeling once he gets stronger, he’ll have control again.

The bard comes down the hallway cautiously. He looks at Yennefer warily and she nods. “He says you can help him down the stairs. He’s also agreed that if we tell him first, he will permit touch.” 

Dandelion stares, “You don’t know us?” he asks Geralt, who doesn’t even bother to look at him. The witcher keeps his head down and to the side, ashamed of his own fear. He had tried to track where he was as they moved, the pace was slow enough he should have some idea, but he can’t see. And his paces are wrong, now, so he’s not quite sure how many they took. There’s carpet under his feet and he knows they’ve gone down a hallway of sorts into an open area. There’s the sound of a fire crackling and his own pitiful shuffles echo back to him. If he had to guess he’d think the new room was large, with high large vaulted ceilings and more hallways leading out of it.

“Just take his arm and help me,” she snaps. There’s no reason to put Geralt through any of this right now. Dandelion does, gingerly putting an arm around Geralt’s middle. The other man groans lightly at the pain of his arm holding him up. 

“Wouldn’t this just be easier if I carried you?” he asks. 

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “Yes it would, but he has let me know he would prefer you not.” 

“Geralt, I will not hurt you. Let me get you off your feet. And your arms, this can’t feel good. None of this can feel good. And it’ll take longer. Why prolong all this pain?” 

“I don’t know you!” Geralt snaps, then coughs weakly. He hawks and spits blood on the flagstones. His head aches, and he can’t quite choose anything logical anyway, because nothing makes sense and everything is wrong. 

“Just be quiet,” Yennefer hisses at the bard, and starts them walking again. When predictably, the pain overwhelms Geralt entirely, Yennefer helps get him onto Dandelion’s back. They speed down the steps, thankful it’s just half a flight. Ciri is behind them, carrying supplies. She needed all sorts of medicine, and extra bandaging. Towels. 

She’s pleased the bathing chamber doesn’t have tubs like what she’s used to. It’s a bit more like the pool under Kaer Morhen. They’ve been staying on the bottom floor, so the hot springs must be just under the keep. Clever, she feels. The springs heat the castle’s main halls and bedrooms in winter, along with providing a place to bathe. The mineral smell of the water wafts up strongly and she looks around as she descends the steps. Her first time down here to wash properly she hadn’t bothered to look around. There are benches and places to lounge in the heat and steam, and fireplaces with wood neatly stacked nearby. In case, somehow, any lingering chill needed to be fought off. Ciri wonders if perhaps the cold from the floors above in winter make it down the steps on occasion.

The bathing pools are spacious, and there’s plenty of spare towels and linens neatly folded on shelves near the base of the stairs. Cakes of fancy soap nicely arranged on a plate, extra buckets just in case. She sees one pool is quite shallow, and then there’s one that seems to be far deeper. She wouldn’t be able to tell without stepping in. 

“This one seems best,” she points out. 

“When he’s conscious,” the bard agrees. He helps Yen settle Geralt onto a bench, lying him down with a towel under his head. They won’t add to his pain at the moment, and the water won’t feel good, they don’t think. Although perhaps being clean might be a nice change. He might feel better, more human. 

“He doesn’t remember us?”

“Not at all, Dandelion. And badgering him won’t change that.”

“I had thought, perhaps, after a few days of rest some of it might start to come back to him.”

“He can hardly see or breathe. I don’t know why you think his body would focus on restoring his memory.”

“Perhaps his mind wanted answers.”

“Or he’s barely hanging on by a thread and you badgering him won’t change anything, it’ll just cause him undue stress. Why can’t you ever leave well enough alone?”

“This is well enough?”

“His mind is well enough. His body is what we’re here to fix.”

“How long do you think it will take him to wake up, Yennefer?”

“Are you bored already?”

“No, dammit, stop being cruel. I love him, too. We work in our own way. I am allowed to worry! I’m allowed to care that he doesn’t know us!”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees blandly. “I now wonder if badgering him is the way to get him to remember. Since that was something you did so well in the past. Oft times to the point of agitating him so much he yelled at you. Something that’s relatively hard to manage, he’s usually quite patient.”

“I know you’re hurting, too. Trying to be unpleasant and cold won’t change that.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not trying to change anything,” Yennefer informs Dandelion dryly. She looks at Geralt’s battered form and closes her eyes for a few moments and breathes through her nose. They will take care of him and set him to rights. And even if he never remembers them, they could fall in love again. He could be the person he was, again, with time. She had promised not to touch him or she would have. Disappointingly, holding his hand would do nothing to help him heal quicker and would not work within the confines of her spell.

It isn’t long before Geralt rouses.

“Do you want to do this a bit at a time?” Yennefer asks him and he shakes his head. 

“Get it over with,” he grunts. He still can’t see much of anything, but the knows the space they’re in is large. Water moves slowly, and the air around him feels humid compared to the dryness of the room he’d been in before. There’s natural rock, he thinks, listening to how sounds move around the room. It’s warm, and the heat feels good to his abused muscles and assorted aches even as it ignites fire across the burns decorating his skin.

“Ciri, we’ll need some buckets of water,” Yennefer requests. The girl promptly gathers up several of the empties and starts filling them at the other pool before bringing them alongside the shallow one. 

“Must he stay?” 

“He must, but once you’re sitting, he can move back.” 

Dandelion helps him get over to the shallower pool, probably made for children. It’s perhaps three feet deep at the center, but shallower out towards the edges. They settle Geralt down at the deepest point, watching his face change colors from the pain. The heat cannot feel good. Blood starts to float off him after a few minutes, pulling away from his skin and following the current that drains the pool. Yennefer thinks she might be a little sick. And she’s mostly immune to a lot of suffering. The bandages still stick to him in places and she's glad they didn't try to pull them away. She'll let them mostly fall away on their own. 

“I need your hair clean, too,” she warns him. He nods a bit, understanding the warning. 

The heat of the water hurts and causes old aches to flare bright even as it soothes the stiffness of his muscles. Geralt hopes that the water over his face might clear up some of the dried blood crusting his eyes shut. At least, he hopes it’s dried blood and that his eyelids are in fact still closed. He’s been too afraid to touch his face and find out.

They carefully dump water over his head. Dandelion holds the bucket and tips slowly as Yennefer carefully works free clumps of clotted blood from what little hair he has left. “I’m going to need to even all this out,” she tells him, gently probing his scalp. He resists the urge to kick her to make the pain stop but can’t stop his leg from twitching. “If nothing else is as severe as this,” she lightly traces the biggest dent to his skull, “I will heal this today. You should feel much better after.” She sees him press his lips together as best he can, they’re still swollen and puffy. When he makes a face, he opens the splits and blood trickles down his face, mixing in the water. 

The bard preps another bucket and Yennefer nods, and they rinse out his hair again. He hisses in pain, the water stinging now exposed raw spots. “Cirilla, scissors,” Yen says tightly. Then to Geralt, “Don’t you dare hit me, I am only going to cut away matted hair, the scissors won’t touch your skin. My oath binds me as surely as the magic does. Does yours?” 

“Yes,” he grits out, clenching his aching fists. 

Ciri hands over the scissors and Yennefer goes over his scalp, cutting away hair too burned, matted, or bloody to clean. Not to mention the uneven hatchet job they did on his scalp makes it look even worse. She carefully evens it all out, keeping her promise not to touch him. When he’s left with a fine white stubble all around his head, she hands the shears off. 

“You’ve always hated having a beard, if it gets to be too much, let me know. I can shave it for you if you can’t do it yourself.” 

“I’ll keep it,” he tells her. He has several weeks growth, but the damage has left it hard to see as an even beard. He also doesn't trust her with a blade against his skin. It would be easy to slit up his face the way his torturers had promised to do. 

“It will require maintenance at some point,” she cautions him. 

“Is it in the way of anything you need to do?” 

“Not yet.”

“Then leave it.” 

“I need to check the inside of your mouth.” 

“Why?” he asks, startled. 

“Your teeth, insides of your cheeks, I need to know how bad all of it is.” 

He tries to look at her, she knows he’s trying. She also knows he’s muddled, still. His eyelids look slightly better, some of the filth washed away when they dumped the buckets over his head.

“It shouldn’t hurt, I’m just going to run a finger around your gums. I suppose if it does, it means something is more wrong than I thought. But I’d rather save your teeth and then worry about your thick skull.” 

He snorts, and she winces when blood sprays out. She catches his chin gently and tips his head up, but doesn’t see anything, his nostrils seem mostly clear. When he pulls his face away from her hand, she allows it. Then holds her hand up gently to his mouth. He gives a long-suffering sigh, but she knows from the way he starts to tremble, he’s afraid. He might take a few of her fingers, but in his current state they’d break his jaw and take all his teeth long before he got even to the stairwell. 

She gently runs her fingertips over his teeth, none are missing, at least other than the one she already knew about. He lost that thanks to Vilgefortz. But none of the others seem loose, and while the insides of his cheeks are a mess, and the insides of his lips are as badly cut as the outsides, she’s relieved. “Let me put something over the raw spots,” she tells him, taking the bottle Ciri passes over. She pours some onto her fingers and he opens his mouth again, swallowing convulsively first. “It might sting a second or two, but it should bring the swelling down and ease the pain,” she promises.

It does sting, but the smell of mint is a good smell, clean, and safe, and she’s right, the pain does ease after a few seconds. He can almost feel the swelling go down rapidly as he swallows hard again, sore throat aching with the effort.

She lightly brushes it over his lips as well, along the ugly splits that stop him from closing his mouth. “Much better,” she says with some satisfaction. The swelling is already going down, and he looks less like a forest rodent and more like himself. “If you puff back up I’ll give you some more tomorrow,” she informs him. He nods a little, tonguing the inside of his mouth to check the raw spots. They’re healing already. 

She is relieved to see that he looks better with less blood and dirt, rather than worse. He’s started healing some in the few days they’ve had him back in their care. Just not enough. It is hard to touch him knowing he’s afraid of her, and Yennefer loathes having to be as careful as she does. She just wants to scream at him that he knows them and can trust them but it won’t change anything for the better.

“Let’s see what we can do to ease the rest of this, alright?” Yennefer asks and waits for him to give her some sign he’s heard. When he does, she begins to talk him through it slowly. She tells him what she’s doing as she does it, running hands over his body. She speeds the healing in his ribs, anchoring the broken pieces to the rest. It won’t stop them from being very fragile, but it will stop them from shifting. Ciri is able to share some power with her, which helps her keep going longer than she might have had to stop. It would have worn her out to fix his ribs, ordinarily but she needs to focus on his head.

She doesn’t feel anything broken in his legs, and he’s still too dirty from the waist down to assess the wounds properly. But none of it requires the same attention his skull does. Yennefer warns him she has no idea how it will feel, but she puts hands on him and knits the cracked bones in the top together, pulling them away from his brain. She also works the second spot, on the side of his skull, hoping that he’ll feel some measure of relief from it. 

She can also feel broken bones in his cheek and around his eye, and touches those as well, Ciri holding her hand to lend her strength as she works. 

She does her best to close gaping wounds at least some. To ease the burns, too, but there are so many hurts she isn’t sure what to focus on. She pulls away from Ciri, exhausted, and knowing the girl at her side is worn out, too.

Geralt retches several times, managing to find one of the empty buckets and to heave up whatever he’d eaten the past few hours. Thankfully he doesn’t re-break his ribs, and Ciri finds the ginger salve that had worked well for him in the past. Just waving it under his nose brings a reprieve and touching a bit to his lip ends the nausea altogether. 

Yennefer does her best to relax some, shaking her head. “Dandelion, we need food, I think I might faint next, Ciri, too.” 

The bard gets up and heads up the stairs.

“Ciri, can you make sure he brings water and wine?” she asks. Geralt stiffens, knowing something she is removing witnesses for is coming. Something he will not like. 

Ciri nods a bit, feeling odd. She needs to get out of the heat as it is, the bathing chambers are warm. She’ll feel better for clearing her head a bit. She thinks she needs to cry over the injuries they keep finding. That might be good. Dandelion might need it, too, and so she goes up to find him. 

“You won’t like any of this, but I saw… a lot of blood on you. And I need to make sure the bleeding has stopped. I have a salve that will close the wound and heal it,” she promises. “But you will not like any part of this.” 

She’s gotten most of the filth off him to about his waist, and now it’s time to check lower. She hasn’t failed to notice his urine is bloody. She sees the bruising all over his back and stomach and winces as she helps him stand up. 

Geralt wonders what she’s going to do to him. He feels better, more stable after the healing. There’s bits more to his vision now, even if everything is covered in a haze of red and the swelling is still too bad for him to open the lids much more than slits.

“They used you poorly, didn’t they?” she whispers softly, looking at bruises on his hips. They look like handprints. She tells herself they aren’t, and she’s wrong. She tells herself it isn’t bruising on his tailbone from a beating, or caning, it’s from falling. He fell. There’s no handprints bruised into his backside, or thighs. She hates that she can see that now. And that she’s tapped out on power to erase them from his body. There’s still dried blood between his legs, and she grabs one of the washcloths and wipes it away gently. He quivers the whole time, barely able to stand it. 

“Please don’t do this to me,” he asks softly. It hadn’t occurred to Geralt he might be willing to beg. Her gentle touch doing something to him that the torturers could not.

“I will not hurt you,” Yennefer tells him firmly, focusing her mind as far away from his thoughts as she can. “I swore it, and I cast the spell. Even if I changed my mind I could not.”

His breathing hitches every time and she knows he’s waiting for her to abuse him. She finds the source of the bleeding, and tells herself she knew, but also had no idea and wouldn’t remember. She will somehow forget this. She doesn't have to carry this burden, too. 

Yennefer’s not so sure the blood is fresh, so much as dried and then activated by the water. Either way she has the promised salve and warns him before she touches him. He still whimpers, even knowing it’s coming. He cringes and tries to do anything in his power to not be present while she gently tends his injuries. 

“You’ll have to stay out of the water a few minutes,” she tells him, rinsing the rag and her hands before carefully washing his legs. She also gets the blood out of his pubic hair, going from his navel down to his groin. She talks him through touching him to make sure he’s intact. A rupture in a sensitive area could be deadly. If they didn’t catch a tear, or twist, and it went septic… he manages to stay still while she works. He manages to stay still while she cleans away the blood. Most of it has dripped down from other places. He keeps waiting for the touch to turn sexual, aggressive, and painful. It never does. 

“I think you can sit,” she offers him her hand. He takes it, and she looks at him in relief. The swelling in his face has gone down and while his eyes are black and purple messes in the sockets, he can open the lids more. “Time for the last bit, alright?” she says. 

He tips his head up at the stairs, and she knows it means someone is coming back. The bard and witcher girl come bearing trays of food and drink. Ciri’s eyes are red and puffy, as are Dandelion’s. They’ve both had a good cry, it seems. 

“All that's left is your knees down. Let me see your leg,” she tells him. Geralt is too exhausted to do anything other than let her ease his leg out of the water and work the blood and dirt from the skin. She cleans blood from under his nails and gets the dirt out of the burns and cuts in his feet. “I’ll need to clip these so you don’t scratch yourself,” she taps the few nails he has left. “I think these are broken, now that I can see them better,” she adds unhappily, touching two of his toes. He winces as she explores the bone. He shouts when she pulls them straight, dragging the bones into alignment. 

“Fuck you!” he spits. “You promised!” The world spins around him and he does his best not to faint dead away. There can’t be any more pain left to feel, can there?

“Did I do anything that violated that promise?” she demands. “Now let me splint your toes,” she tells him, not having let go of his heel when he tried to jerk away. He's too weak, she realizes. He should have been able to pull away easily. She looks briefly at his ankle, they'll need to rebandage those along with his wrists. 

He does his best to glare at her, but with his face so mutilated it’s hard to tell. She uses a temporary splint, no point in doing anything long term while he’s still in the bath. He needs to be dry first. 

She cleans his other foot, and is thankful nothing seems broken there, for all it’s fairly obvious he was stomped on several times. She can see the outlines of boot heels across the top of his foot. Probably to stop him from doing something. His whole body is a wash of pain, and she hopes they’ve gotten the worst of the mess out so they can start putting him back together properly. She touches the weird spots in his skin. She can see that they were made by cuts, perhaps aborted attempts at skinning him? But she feels something under them. 

“Ciri…” she mumbles, the girl has more healer training than she does, now, from those weeks spent with Triss. 

The girl obliges her and comes over, somewhat fortified by a few deep sips of wine. Her hands are steady as she checks over the especially bad on one Geralt’s chest. It’s almost as if they tried to cut away his nipple and the area around it. But there’s definitely something in it, and he grunts when she presses down lightly. 

“We have to cut this open.” 

Geralt takes a few slow breaths, trying to prepare himself. He’d started to fall for it. He'd almost started to believe the torture was over. Stupid of him. 

“I have the numbing stuff, you won’t have to feel it,” Ciri promises him. She can see the fear at the edges of his face. “You don’t remember, but when you got caught by the leshen, I cut the claws out of your scalp. You hardly noticed. I stitched you up, I made sure you were alright, while you were sick.” 

He doesn’t remember. He looks at Yennefer, “I don’t want to see it,” he tells her, because he knows he won’t be able to look away. Not that he’ll be able to see what’s happening very well but he’d rather not see anything at all. The idea of being forced to endure more mutilation and then to see it makes his belly roil. He doesn’t trust them but he knows there is no way out of this. He isn’t strong enough to fight off one lone woman. Perhaps she will grant him at least one kindness, as the torture resumes. Perhaps she won’t make him watch.

She gently cups his cheek to hold his head steady so he won’t be able to see, and then nods to Ciri. The girl prepares her tools and spreads the numbing ointment over his chest in a fairly wide swath. He doesn’t have to feel any of it. She follows the original scar cut into his chest and opens the skin. She doesn’t blanch or whimper when blood and infection drip over his stomach, trailing down his torso. She reaches in carefully under the skin, searching for what she felt before. She swears when she finds it, and Yen keeps Geralt’s face tipped away. She doesn’t break eye contact with him, promising him she’s there with him. When his eyes dart to the side Yennefer moves her hand to block his vision, bringing it forward on his cheek. She feels a certain amount of relief he trusts her enough to let her do this. 

His bloodied amber eyes search her violet ones for answers. He's supposed to know her and doesn't. She does seem to care about him. His head aches and his chest feels odd as Ciri cuts into him. He doesn't feel pain but he can vaguely feel movement. Yennefer holds his gaze unblinkingly and he lets himself get lost in her eyes. Some magic, perhaps, but it's better than being present. He'd rather be anywhere else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to help me update the tags list. Work is a mess. We had a 5 hour zoom meeting to basically say "we'll play it all by ear." I'm losing my mind.
> 
> Good news is I'm currently free of covid. I have another 8 hours of zoom tomorrow, so feel free to drop comments so while I'm bored I can read them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canon compliant injury/wound care. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Ruusverd. You should probably go check out their .. Echoes of the Fall AU fic? Which might be my favorite thing on the planet right now. Also I don't really know if I'd feel much like posting this if they hadn't busted ass to edit it. So you should go check out their fic and leave them a nice comment. <3

With several more choice ugly words, Ciri extracts a piece of sharp metal from under his skin. She holds it flat on her palm, revealing sliced fingertips. “They broke off a blade inside,” she explains. “Knowing Geralt, it might have been an accident,” she explains. Glad she hadn’t accidentally numbed both hands in numbing his chest, otherwise she might have done more than slice her fingertips. The evilness of it makes her eyes burn. She’s not so sure they shouldn’t have locked up the men who did this and killed them slowly, piece by piece. 

“How do you mean?” Dandelion asks, and Geralt flinches even though the bard is across the room from him.

“He’d never just sit there and let them hurt him,” Ciri says softly. “They broke it off in you when you attacked them.”

She cleans out the injury, and then stitches his skin back together the way it should have been in the first place. Not that there should have been anything to stitch. She finds several other wounds like that one and has to repeat the process every time. Then they have to rinse him off all over again.

“You’re so thin,” she says miserably. The last time she had curled up to him he had been solid and warm, his bulk comforting in the night. Now he’s mostly skin and bones where he isn’t comprised of oozing sores. 

Geralt can’t stop shaking and is finding it harder and harder to hold himself up.

“Let’s stop for a bit,” Yennefer suggests quietly, and Ciri nods, putting her tools away.

They take a short break to eat and drink, trying to coax Geralt into eating something as well. He manages a slice of the meat and a bite or two of cheese before snubbing the rest. He won’t touch the wine either but does manage to sip some water. 

Yennefer brings a towel over after. They need to work on his back, and he’ll feel safer if he’s somewhat covered. She helps him wrap it around his waist and eases him down. She moves herself into the water and allows him to rest his body in her lap, heedless of the blood and water soaking into her expensive gown.

She doesn’t touch him, as promised, other than to help Ciri start putting him together. Dandelion stays away, as promised. For all that she knows it’s destroying the bard. And perhaps he drinks more of the wine than he should have, but he remains silent. 

They have to cut away some of the strips, she assumes a whip caused it. She’s not too sure, it’s just ugly and awful. The bigger swatches require stitches, and they do what they can to heal his back. There's nothing they can do about places he's missing skin entirely other than clean the area and coat it with a healing salve once he's dry.

Between the two of them, when it’s done, they get him out of the water and dried off. He sways back and forth on his feet, trying to keep his balance and struggling.

He tolerates Dandelion helping keep him upright as both Ciri and Yennefer work salve into his other wounds and bandage them. They secure a piece of fabric to his back again, using mostly the salve to hold it at first until they can wind bandaging around to hold it over his shoulders and around his middle. 

Yennefer finds a shirt she gets him into with Dandelion’s help, and then once his legs are bandaged, underclothes, and then loose linen pants. Ciri bandages his feet before they get him into soft leather slippers. He feels ridiculous when he has time to think about what he’s wearing. No boots, he’s dressed like some kind of lordling moron, wearing fancy soft clothes and not owning real shoes… 

“He’s asleep on his feet,” Dandelion murmurs, looking at the swaying witcher. 

“I think you can safely carry him again,” Yennefer hopes. 

“It would be better if it wouldn’t hurt him any.” 

“I think walking hurts him worse,” Ciri points out.

Dandelion shifts and hooks Geralt under the knees, lifting him neatly onto his back. Geralt groans in his sleep, body aching, for all he instinctively puts his arms around the bard’s neck.

“Have you carried him before?” She notices how practiced the motion seems. 

“Not often,” Dandelion admits. “Very rarely. And I doubt he’d admit to it anyway.” 

“Why?” 

“Admit to it? He’s very proud of how tough he is, and how little help he needs.” 

“No, why did you carry him those other times?” 

“Well, once he was tired. So tired he couldn’t stay awake. And then one other time, his leg was badly hurt. He couldn’t walk, so he let me carry him to Roach. And then he’d had enough. I suspect he’s too manly to admit to needing help in the past.” 

“I suspect he felt very undignified and awkward,” Yennefer points out. She feels as though she has to defend him at least a little. “If nothing else I hope this proves to him he’s deserving of every happiness he’s ever wanted.” 

“How so?” 

“He let them torture him for a month without betraying any of us. I hope when he remembers us, he’ll stop acting like he doesn’t deserve us.” 

“I thought we disabused him of that,” Dandelion grunts, stepping over the last step. 

“We mostly did, I think. And then I am sure being captured made him feel unworthy all over again. Not to ignore the fact that he can’t remember us, and therefore has forgotten any lessons we taught him.” 

They settle him into the bed, fresh linens and blankets waiting for him. Yennefer doesn’t bind him to the bed, it should be unnecessary. Outside of fingers and toes, his bones shouldn’t be shifting, and they splinted those. His ribs should finish knitting in full in a day or so, he heals quickly. 

“He looks awful,” Ciri says in a small voice. She’s patched him up a few times, but she’s never seen something like this. “He seemed better with the curse than he does now.” 

“Well that was over quite quickly. All he had to do was rest up a bit.” 

“This will be like that right? He just looks worse?” 

“It should be,” Yennefer agrees. 

Geralt shifts, waking up to see them all around him. He draws his limbs in close, waiting for the beating to start. When it doesn’t, he eases himself up, hurting more than he’d like from that simple movement. Dandelion leaves first, knowing that pushing the witcher won’t change what he doesn’t remember. Or knowing that Yennefer had had to promise not to touch him at all to get him to relax even the smallest bit around her. 

The sorceress leaves next, exhausted. She goes to her chambers to grieve in solitude. She’d rather no one else see or know her pain. He’s scared of her. He’d been tipping up his chin for kisses on the regular, he’d been sleeping with her and Dandelion, he’d been comfortable being loved. He’d seen himself the way they did, and he’d let go of some of that ugliness he carried around with him everywhere he went. Now, he’s retreated so far back into himself she has no idea how to help him.

When Ciri makes a move to leave, he makes a choked sound, and she stays. She tucks herself in against his side, barely touching him. He mumbles something to himself she doesn’t understand, but she does hear the word ‘mine.’ He manages to put a hand on her side before he falls asleep. 

She stays with him and he sleeps a few hours. When he wakes up feeling sick, he rolls onto his side and retches. Ciri rouses herself and finds the ginger medicine and passes it to him. He breathes it deeply, and the nausea stops. When he tries to hand it back, she doesn’t take it. “You need it, just keep it near you,” she tells him. 

He wonders what it’s going to cost him to keep the expensive medicine. So far none of this makes sense. He couldn’t even have water if he didn’t do something to get it first. Or food, or anything else. He always had to do something. And now they keep giving him things. He carefully spreads some of it onto his lip, knowing that’s how she’s always done it, for all he can’t remember when or why. But he remembers being sick before, and Ciri leaning over him and touching the ointment to his lip. 

He can remember holding her hands, walking around a small room, but the details are fuzzy and mostly missing. “You took care of me before.” 

“I did, I learned a lot.” 

“I don’t remember how I got hurt that time,” he tells her. 

“A leshen,” she informs him.

He rolls back to face her, wincing. “I’m a witcher, I’m supposed to heal quickly. To take potions that heal me and stop up the pain.” 

“You were out. And you’d been taking a lot of wounds. We’d been running from Nilfgaard for months. We fought soldiers, and you would get hurt and not tell us, we found out,” she complains. “And you ended up with a lot of infections and other blood loss and when you finally got hurt so bad you couldn’t hide it, we found out. And it took us a while to get you put to rights.” 

“People joined by destiny always find each other,” he tells her stupidly. 

“Yes,” she agrees, unsure why he’s even saying that. “Is your poor head still addled?” she asks, pressing her hand to his forehead gently to check for fever. He flinches away, and she bites her lip. It’s as if every time she has to start all over again. They’d been together months, she’d known of him for years, and he’d known about her her whole life. And yet every time she reaches out now, after just one month, he won’t let her touch him. She sees the fear flicker in his eyes every time. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, fighting tears. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

He takes her hand weakly, shaking his head a little. “Ciri,” he mumbles. Tears fill his eyes, and she winces when he rubs at them a little. 

“Here, I’ll get a cloth, don’t do that,” she tells him. She isn’t surprised to find the linen turned pink where his tears touch it. She has a feeling he’ll be seeing better because of it, though. 

“We trained,” he smiles faintly, and the effect is ghastly. The bruises and swelling stretch across his face and she winces. “You killed that rat, with the horrid tail,” he touches her cheek. She wishes she could hug him. It would hurt too much she knows. “I had to protect you,” he tells her brokenly. “I couldn’t tell them where you were.” 

“I know, it’s all right, I know,” she tells him, kissing the unbruised section of his cheek. 

It seems like perhaps fixing his skull had done him some good. He tries to hang onto her, hand pawing oddly at her arm, and it takes her a few minutes to understand what he’s trying to do. She gives him her hand again, and he settles down. He falls asleep quickly enough, worn out from the healing and strain. When he wakes up again, asking for water, she goes to get it. He takes it from her when she’s back, and he drinks slowly and deeply. 

He thanks her and holds out his hand again. She takes it, and sits with him while he sleeps, unable to get any rest herself. He has no hair to fuss with, anymore. Nothing to braid or clean or comb, and she presses her lips together. It had become something of a routine for them. He bathed, she did his hair. And if she woke up with nightmares, he let her braid his hair until she went to sleep. He’d always shake it out before she woke up, telling her it was so she’d have a blank slate, but she knows it was simply because he was embarrassed she’d make him look silly. 

She stays there, frozen, all night until Yennefer comes in with breakfast. “Good morning,” she croaks, looking at her blearily. 

“Go find Dandelion and get some sleep,” Yennefer tells her. She nods, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. She swipes a roll from the tray and heads out of the room. 

Geralt wakes at the sound of the dishes being set, and water being poured. He sits up slowly, body aching. He can see better, and no longer feels blinded. His vision still exists in a haze of pink but he at least feels a little better. “Come to poke at me more?” he asks bitterly. 

“Not for now. Just to see that you eat something.” 

“Hmm,” he picks at an apple slice, and sips at the water. The fruit is too hard on his mouth and he abandons it. He tries some of the bread, it’s soft enough he can manage if he picks out the middle. “Who does all this? I haven’t seen servants.” 

“They’re here, I think. There’s an odd magic to this place. I wouldn’t worry myself too much about it. No one’s here who would hurt you. And no one can get in without the spell.” 

He notices another cup, and picks it up, taking a cautious sip. Sugar assaults his senses, and then the taste of apples. He looks at her in confusion. There’s something to do with juice, and an invisible woman, and a sense of urgency. Someone in danger he had to help. The apple juice is cool and sweet, and he drains the cup all the same, waiting for more of his memories to fall in. When nothing happens, he looks at the bottom of the cup, frowning. 

“What’s wrong?”

“This means something. Or it should.” 

“It will again, I’m sure.” She watches as he manages a few mouthfuls of bread. “I need to check the bandages on your back, when you’re done.”

“Hmm,” he puts the remainder of the food in his hand down, appetite lost. He reaches up to pull up his shirt, exposing the swathes of linens covering him. She leans over to look without touching. There’s nothing seeping through that she can see.

“I think we can leave it until tomorrow, or later today. Are you still pissing blood?” 

“Stick around and find out,” he tells her irritably. 

“Does it hurt to piss?” she presses. 

“Why?” 

“Can you stop being difficult so I can leave?” she asks him irritably. 

“I thought you loved me,” he sounds like he can’t decide if he’s trying to mock her or ask her. 

“Which is what makes it hard to stand here and not have you know me. So again, are you still pissing blood?” 

“I was yesterday, I haven’t exactly checked yet today. And I don’t need your help, I think I can stand fine on my own.” 

Yennefer sighs deeply. “I will come back later then. Do you need more water brought to you or is one pitcher enough?” She recognizes he’d like some distance between them right now. 

“I will be fine until it’s time for you to come feed and water your new pet monster,” he grinds out. 

She has no reply and turns on her heel and leaves. She bumps into Dandelion in the hallway, quite literally. 

“I take it he’s still lost to us?” he asks her, then takes another look at her face. “Oh, Yennefer,” he says quietly. He’s just as surprised as she is when she starts to sob, and she wraps her arms around his neck. He’s cried almost daily, at this point, and thrown up every time he thinks about how he stood there and watched them slip that knife into Geralt’s back. All the blood, it had been worse than the time Geralt had cut his way out of a selkimore that had decided to eat him. 

He holds her until she collects herself briskly. A few seconds of further sniffling seems to be in order and then she’s looking as though she never felt a thing. Except just a hint of redness to her eyes. 

“Where’s Ciri?” 

“Asleep in my bed, I think she cried herself to sleep, truth be told.” 

“He doesn’t know her either?” 

“No, but he has a bond with her of some kind. He knows her, on some level. More than he knows us. She told me he’d babbled some nonsense about destiny to her and used her name. She thinks he might be close to really remembering her, though.” 

“Well that’s good, some progress has been had.” 

“He’s also being an ass in turns. I suppose it means he’s feeling better.” 

“He never did much like being an invalid.” 

“No, but he usually wasn’t so unpleasant about it.” 

“We could touch him, before. We could sit with him and hold him, and stroke his hair, and kiss him, and reassure him. He would let us be with him. He was also never hurt this bad before.” Dandelion looks at her sadly. “He let us love him, and he was happier for it. It wasn’t the same as this, where he’s scared of us or hates us in turns. It was much easier to bear his pain when it felt like we could do something to ease it.” 

She nods, she can’t disagree. She squeezes his hand for a moment, and then makes her way to her room. She needs to make up more tinctures and salves. They’re going to need more when they change his bandages later. 

Geralt can almost hear them down the hallway, but he can’t make himself focus enough to sharpen his hearing. He knows they’re talking, and that they sound sad. He notes that yes, he is still pissing blood, and yes, it’s still extremely painful. Hopefully that won’t be as bad a thing as it seems, he’s been hit in the kidneys before. It’s just part of taking a beating, he feels. He looks over at his body as much as he can without moving much. Runs a hand lightly over his scalp and winces at the pain. At least he doesn’t feel like his head is going to explode anymore. Or that his eyes might pop free of the sockets and rupture. 

He manages to get himself up and looks into the mirror above the small vanity. What little he can make out stuns him. He doesn’t recognize himself at all. The beard, the shaved scalp, the bruises… his eyes are completely blacked all around, and there’s red streaks where the skin tore, leaving open wounds. His mouth at least looks like it’s the proper shape again, he hadn’t seen what he’d looked like before the witch had put anything in his mouth, but he’d felt it. 

It’s not as hard as he thought to get out of his room. No one stops him. But he quickly realizes he’s not getting more than a few steps down the hall without help. He turns back, bitterness flooding his mouth as he gives up and sits on the bed. 

He’s sick of lying on his back, it hurts, but so does his stomach. They had taken literal patches of his skin every time he’d killed someone. Or they’d branded him badly. And every escape attempt he’d made, they’d caned or burned his feet. He can’t walk, he can’t rest, he can’t entertain himself and he’s trapped with people who pretend to know him that he can’t remember. There’s no books, not that he could focus to read anyway. It’s easier to simply drift away mentally, sitting on the edge of the bed. He learned how to do that, long before he ever started walking the path of a witcher. 

Yennefer pauses outside the door, books in her hands. She’d brought his favorites, hoping that he’d find some comfort in them while he’s still unable to move around. He’d liked reading when he’d stayed with her in Vengerberg. She hadn’t failed to notice he’d read almost everything he could that she’d owned. It seemed like he mostly enjoyed philosophy but he’d also had a bit of a soft spot for adventure tales. She steels herself before going in, knowing he will snap at her and be absent of all the love they’d built over the years. He can’t help it, it’s not his fault, and being hostile with him won’t make the situation change. 

Geralt starts when the door opens, shocked at how beautiful the woman is who opens the door. But there’s something off about it, he can’t explain, but he knows something isn’t quite right. It’s not natural, not wholly. But he’s drawn to her, and he wants to touch her hair. He breathes deeply and can almost catch her scent. He hadn't realized how little he could see before. 

“I brought you something to keep your mind occupied,” she informs him as blandly as she can. She dumps the books onto the edge of the bed furthest away from him. He glances at them, and cracks one open, eyes narrowing and brow furrowing as he tries to make the pages focus. Disgusted, he knocks it aside, he can’t really see clearly. 

When she opens her mouth, he cuts her off, “Yes, I still piss blood, no it is not comfortable, and no, I don’t want you to touch me right now.” 

She purses her lips for a second, “You loved that book.” 

“What book?” 

“The one you tossed aside like it was trash. I found it here, in the library. Some of your old favorites and then some you’ve never read.” 

“It would be so much fun, if only the pages weren’t a blur,” he snarls. “But you knew that, didn’t you? It was some kind of joke you could play-” 

“No!” she snaps, losing any hope of keeping her temper. He could always bring that out in her, her worst side. And her best. “I brought it because when we lived together, you read it and we talked about it. I brought it because I thought it might help you remember that time! I brought it because you used to love to read but had so little time for it on the road!” 

He looks taken aback and utterly confused. 

“I had no idea you couldn’t see. Your eyes are less swollen and I thought the problem was that your lids were swollen shut, not that anything happened to your eyes themselves.” Her voice drops, her rage spent, terror replacing it. He needs to be able to see clearly. She grabs his chin without warning and he braces himself for the pain. When nothing happens, he opens his eyes again, waiting. She tilts his head watching his eyes carefully. His pupils react to the change in light and are able to follow her face even when his head is turned away. “Should we just try rinsing them? Do you think?” she asks him, and he barks a sharp laugh. 

“The fuck would I know?” 

She breathes hard through her nose and gets up to get a rag from over by the washbasin. She soaks it in water and brings it over to him after barely wringing it out. “Tip your head back.” 

He swallows but tips his head back all the same. She carefully places the cloth over his eyes, letting water run over his face and into the stubble that used to be his hair. Some of it will end up in his eyes, she’s sure, hopefully flush them out somewhat. It had been a bear getting all the blood from around his nostrils, and she has no idea what to do for his eyes. Perhaps Ciri knows of something, or some tonic they could drop in. Either way she gives it a few minutes and peeks under. He blinks rapidly, wincing when it makes the bruises ache. Yennefer wasn’t wrong, and water drips into his eyes. It stings, which is fairly acceptable because some of the pink washing his vision fades. 

“It could be all the bruising, too,” she muses softly. “There’s plenty of snow outside, I could try bundling it into a kerchief and you could let it rest on your eyes till it melts.” 

He doesn’t bother to respond, trying to tolerate the cloth over his eyes with no idea what she might be doing to him when he can’t see. She has magic. She could do anything. His skin crawls and he shudders involuntarily. A few more minutes of blinking water away, he drags the cloth off his face and tosses it in the direction of the basin. It slaps wetly against the vanity, misses, and drops to the ground. 

Unable to kiss him, she just looks at his eyes, trying to see if there’s any changes. The whites might be closer to white, now, but she’s not sure. Instead of leaving like she wants to, she picks up the book and opens it to the first page and starts to read out loud. He’s incredibly cagey when she starts, as though expecting it to be some kind of trap. It takes a few pages before he starts to relax. She keeps going and has no idea if he’s really listening to her at all, but he inches closer to her. She remains patient and ignores him until he’s peering over her shoulder at the pages. 

“Can you see?” she asks him, and he starts, pulling away from her with a hiss of pain. 

“No,” he tells her gruffly, she can hear the hatred in his voice. 

She looks down to see where she left off and ignores the rage he gives off as she starts to read again. He maintains it longer, frustrated, and scared, and she has to read quite a bit more before he relaxes. This time he doesn’t move any closer, and when her throat starts to feel dry, she finishes the chapter, closes the book and leaves it on the side of the bed. “I’ll look in on you later. Would you like lunch?” 

“I don’t feel like eating.” 

“Your choice,” she assures him. "I'll have Ciri drop something off in case you change your mind." 

He grunts and turns away from her.

True to her word, sometime later Ciri appears with a tray. She settles it on the nightstand closest to him and makes to leave again. He makes a soft sound of protest, and she turns. 

"Tell me who you are," he begs, he feels like he almost has it. Geralt has flashes of memories that involve her. There's new ones almost every time and his heart aches when he sees her. He knows she belongs to him somehow. 

"I am the last rose of Cintra, the Lion Cub, granddaughter of Queen Calanthe, the Lioness. My mother was Pavetta and my father Duny," her voice falters. "They were murdered and then my grandmother betrayed. You were at their weddings when my grandmother married my grandfather, King Eist of Skellige." 

He listens, trying to remember as she tells him the story of her parents. The fight, the druid Mousesack and her short time as a runaway in Brokilon and after, where he found her. He'd returned her to her grandmother, breaking her heart. But he'd come for her again, finding her at a farm, he’d been injured and poisoned but they'd been reunited. He'd taken her to the ancient keep of the witchers and begun her training. When her magic revealed itself he had found her a teacher, and then taken her to Yennefer. In trying to protect her he had also found her a mother. 

Then the tower fell when the mages revolted. She tells him of his journey to find her, the beating he'd taken by Vilgefortz and her time with the Rats thinking he wasn't coming. The death of her lover, and her gang, and how they'd found each other again almost on accident. She'd been happy to let them take charge again and keep her safe, it had been so long since she had felt truly loved or safe with anyone. 

She tells him of their panic when Nilfgaard had taken him. Yennefer having to use magic to keep her from sacrificing herself. Somehow, the army had not seen the three riders who escaped their trap. She explains planning his rescue, the agony of not knowing if they would be retrieving his body or just avenging him with nothing to bury. The relief she'd felt seeing him, even as badly hurt as he was. The relief she'd felt knowing he was alive, and strong and he would heal. Without realizing it she had started to cry, continuing her story between sobs. "My father would be so pleased to know what a good Papa you are for me," she chokes. "We always find each other, you promised." 

Bloody tears run over his battered cheeks and disappear into his beard. He lightly presses his forehead to hers, hardly able to stand the touch. He wants to comfort her. He doesn't know how. He breathes deep, taking in her scent. He remembers some of it, now. He presses a kiss to her forehead, resting his chin on top of her head. Her small body that close to his triggers the floodgates of memories. Conversations with the druid, searching the bodies for hers, showing her how to hold a sword, telling her to get up and face her fears lest she be controlled by them… "Ciri," his voice cracks, and he lifts his hand to cup her cheek. 

She knows what that break in his voice means, and she begins to sob in earnest. He can't hold her, and she can't hold him, but she feels him tremble, and his head against hers with a hand on her cheek is enough. She can feel how much he loves her in those two simple points of contact. When she's calm, she dries his tears, and kisses his cheek gently. "You need to eat," she mumbles, so relieved she could faint. He remembers her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I caught all the typos and ao3 isn't still doing that weird glitch with the spacing/formatting I've noticed here and there. Oh well. The like, what, 3 of you reading this probably won't mind too much, right? Esp 'cause one of you read it in beta. :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt starts to feel a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruusverd, you are the reason this fic is getting posted. Any edits I missed are my fault. Thank you. 
> 
> And thanks to those of you whose usernames I'm starting to look forward to seeing because I recognize you, and your comments. <3 Seriously thanks.

He manages to clear his plate, sipping at the apple juice she'd brought. He gets flashes of something, feelings, but no memories come. Frustrated he sets it down. Perhaps it's not juice it's some kind of potion. But he remembers Ciri. He smiles weakly at her, afraid to crack the scabbing on his lips. 

The lividity of his bruises highlights how pale his skin is, and the swelling and lumps give him a truly ghoulish aspect. But the look in his eyes is warm and kind. Exhausted, Geralt holds back a yawn. It's too painful. His stomach is full, he feels almost sick it's been so long since he ate that much. Ciri can see him fading fast and helps him lie down. He curls on his side, protecting his middle. 

She watches him sleep, "I love you," she says. Then immediately wonders if she's ever said it to him before. Does he know? Has she told him? Why can't she remember? She must have, right? It takes all her willpower not to shake him awake and tell him. He needs the sleep, that's when the body does the most healing. 

She leaves him to rest but says it a few more times when his face creases in his sleep. "I love you, and you need to get better soon."

She listens to his breathing whistle in and out of his swollen nose and thinks perhaps he would let her put some ice on his face. He had hated Yen using a damp cloth for just a few minutes, she'd learned. But perhaps if it were just them, he would let her cover his eyes. He'd breathe easier. 

When he starts to swallow convulsively in his sleep, she leans over to snag the ginger tincture and open it under his nose. It works, and she caps it rather than add any to his skin. She's afraid to touch him. Yennefer had told her it wouldn't be shocking if food made him sick after a month of privation, and to let him decide his own food portions for now. He's too mistrusting to eat much anyway. Ciri thinks stews might be better for him than meats, cheeses, and bread, but he's mostly been eating the bread. She intends to see if the mysterious kitchen help can be persuaded to make some soups or stew. She's never seen a single servant but the bed linens are always clean and food is always warm and ready at the proper mealtimes. Yennefer told her not to try and figure out how things happened and to leave it be and just be grateful. But Geralt needs food that will sit easier on his stomach. 

When he shifts again in his sleep, face creasing in pain, she strokes the stubble over his ear, and he relaxes again. He knows her touch. Exhausted in her own right, she curls in close but not touching and falls asleep with her hand over his heart. 

He wakes up a few hours later, mouth dry. Relieved to see Ciri at his side, he breathes just a bit easier. Geralt has to work hard to sit up without disturbing her or hurting himself, but he manages. With shaky hands he pours himself some water and slowly drains the cup. Settled some, he aches and tries to find a comfortable way to sit. 

She shifts and wakes, and she sees the regret in the witcher's face. He hadn't meant to disturb her. "If I get you some ice for your nose, will you use it? I think if the swelling comes down, you'll hurt less." 

"Are we truly safe here?"

"Yes. Yen and Dandelion would never hurt us. Never. They’re family." 

"Can- can you bring some for my feet, too?" he asks hesitantly, afraid to ask for more of her. 

"Of course," she leaps up and grabs the empty pitcher from the side of the bed. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she promises.

Yennefer looks up to see Ciri running down the hallway holding a pitcher and feels some mild alarm. She gets up to see the girl race out the door and leave it ajar before running back. She makes as if to follow her but the Ciri shakes her head as she runs and so Yennefer doesn't follow. She's packed as much snow as she can into the pitcher and she wants to get it to Geralt before even a single flake melts. 

He has time to get anxious before she comes back. Restless, but too sore to get up and do anything about it, he looks at one of the books Yennefer left him. Ecstatic that he can actually read the print, it takes him several minutes to find where she had left off reading. Ciri makes it back in to see him absorbed in the book and smiles. 

"I have the ice if you want it." 

"Please," he closes the book. 

She finds a rag by the wash basin and packs some snow into the middle before tying it off and handing it to him. He leans back, hissing in pain as he sets the snow over the bridge of his nose. Unable to find more cloths lying around she strips the pillowcase from one of the extras and fills it with the rest of the snow. "I don't know how to keep the bed dry." 

"I don't mind," he tells her. It's still more comfortable than his cell. It's difficult to figure out how to make it work until it occurs to him to just bend his knees and place the soles of his feet on the packet of snow that she's made him. 

He feels nervous, not being able to see. But he remembers how deadly she can be, he knows the training she's had. He feels safer with her around. 

When the snow forms to ice and then starts to really melt and make a mess he sighs. He eases his body up carefully and dumps the mess onto the tray. Ciri looks at him critically and smiles brightly. 

"Your nose looks more like your nose," she informs him. 

He looks at her oddly, "And whose did it look like before pray tell?" 

She snorts and smiles at him. "You looked a fright. Still do. But that's better all the same. How're your feet?" 

"Unpleasant," he admits. "I feel like if I could walk that far on my own I should just go outside and roll in the snow until everything was numb." 

"You'd look like a snowman," she grins. "You'd also freeze half to death."

"But I'd hurt less," he counters. She rolls her eyes in response and he gives her that weird little smile he's started using. Probably because his face hurts too much to do more than twitch a bit.

"These books are dreadful," she informs him, passing him one on philosophy. 

"I don't think so, but perhaps you'd prefer one about white knights?" 

"Unrealistic. Not everyone has a happy ending after undergoing a few measly trials." 

"Then what do you recommend?" 

"Not reading at all. But I suppose you haven't much else to do unless you'd like to take up hoop embroidery."

He holds up his hands, bandaged and splinted and they both share a rueful smile. "Perhaps I can darn socks in a few days."

"That would make you more useful," she teases. Then wonders if that was too unkind. He doesn't react negatively and she breathes a silent sigh of relief. 

"My grandfather quite liked you," she tells him. 

"He was a good man. Kept your grandmother from being too…. Wild. But he had no interest in being a king and she had no interest in giving up power. It was a love match…" he trails off. 

"You truly do remember." 

"Yes, I remember you." 

"Yennefer and Dandelion would never hurt you. Can you trust me on that?" 

He looks away. "I don't know them Ciri." 

"You do, same as you knew me. It just took some time. You, the three of you, well you have a bit of an unconventional arrangement."

"Hmm?" 

"Well. I was always told you had to pick one, and then if you truly couldn't you still had to marry just one person and then hide sleeping with another from them. But the three of you," she shrugs a bit. "You're together all at once or separate, whatever's convenient." 

"And how do you know?" He feels odd she should know so much about his romantic attachments.

"It's obvious. You three don't do much to hide it either. You all kiss each other and hold hands. I'm just thankful any fucking that's happened I haven't stumbled across. But I know it's happening." 

He'd turn red if he could blush. "Perhaps it's just kissing. I think I'd remember bedding two people. Especially if I wasn't paying for the pleasure of it." 

"You and Yennefer have been bedding each other for years," she points out. “Everyone knows it. If you know of Yennefer of Vengerberg you know she's fucking the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. And vice versa. I feel Dandelion might be a newer addition. But it feels right." She gives him a cautious smile. "I went from losing my whole family to gaining a new mother and two fathers." She'd also lost her friends and her lover. But so far, she'd found no replacements for those on the road. Being in hiding makes it hard to create any kind of relationship. She's still glad to have Yennefer and Geralt back and delighted to add Dandelion to her small family. 

"Is this the sort of thing we should be discussing?" He asks her in consternation. Perhaps it's improper. 

"After all we've lived through, does anything matter anymore?" She asks, sounding far too bitter and old for her years. 

"I love you," he tells her hesitantly. "I love you like a daughter, Ciri. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from all of it. I'm sorry I broke my promise." 

"Oh, Geralt, I love you, too. And you didn't break it! You didn't break it at all, it wasn't your fault." 

"I sent you to Aretuza, away from Kaer Morhen. I thought you had to go there to learn to manage your magicks. I was foolish Ciri, and I lost you." 

"And then you found me." 

"I did. I will always find you, Ciri. Only death would stop me." 

She touches his cheek, noting it almost did. He leans lightly into her touch, desperate for things that don’t hurt. “I’ll come back, I need to do a few things,” she tells him, pained. She’d give anything to slide into his arms, and to feel him hold her. And he will again, she knows. She sniffles slightly and kisses his cheek again. “Just a little bit,” she promises, knowing she’s not making much sense. 

He watches her helplessly as she leaves the room and tries to listen but she’s out of earshot within seconds. 

Ciri darts down the hallway to the main room, unsurprised to see the poet sitting at the table staring at blank pages. She flings herself into his arms, sobbing against his chest, heedless of the pen he’s holding. 

Dandelion wraps his arms around her, moving the papers away further from them. He smooths her hair down without a word, tucking her head under his chin. He has a feeling that Geralt still isn’t in full control of his faculties and has done something to hurt her. He hopes not, but he knows the witcher can be vicious when the mood strikes him. 

“He remembers me,” she sobs, and he blinks in confusion. “And I can’t hardly touch him, they hurt him so bad,” her voice rises shrilly. She’s curled into Geralt’s chest hundreds of times. And now she can’t because some monsters tried to take him from her. “I can’t, I can’t-” she can’t even finish speaking, she’s crying so hard. 

“He’ll heal, Ciri. He’s already healing.” The bard is aware half the reason Ciri comes to him for comfort is because Geralt isn’t able to give it. They’ve gotten closer since Geralt’s capture, and he’s come to see her as his surrogate daughter, just like his lover does. “He’ll hold you strong and fast soon enough.” 

“It shouldn’t be like this!” She slams her palm down on the table. 

“No, it shouldn’t. The worst part is knowing he thinks it’s just part of being a witcher, and not something awful that’s been done to him.” He kisses the side of her head absently. He knows from Ciri that when Geralt had first rescued her after the fall of Cintra, she could only sleep when pressed near his side. The pain of losing her parents, and then her grandparents had been terrible, and Geralt was the only constant left in her life. And then Yennefer, who she had also been separated from for a time.

Then her second found family had been murdered in front of her. Geralt had managed to find her again and was keeping her closer than ever. Only he hadn’t remembered her, and he can’t offer much comfort now that he knows who she is. She just wants him to hold her. 

“I don’t know how to help him. He still doesn’t remember you or Ma-Yennefer.” 

“That’s not your worry, Ciri. We’ll help him. We’ll get him back all the way. And things will go as back to normal as they can. He’s healing well thanks to everything you and Yennefer are doing. He’ll be up and about on his own soon enough. And you can sleep at his side again whenever it pleases you.” He smooths her hair down again. Now he’s completely sure why she’s been joining him at night off and on. If she can’t have Geralt he’s the next best thing if she wants a masculine presence. 

She snuffles against his chest again, trying to get as close as possible. He readjusts his hold. They stay like that for a few moments, and then she pulls away. “I told him I’d come back.” 

“Then you’d best do so,” he smiles sadly. Brushing tears off her cheeks, he gives her an encouraging look. “He’ll be alright Ciri, have faith. He always comes through.” 

She bobs her head, and steals some of the food he’d been ignoring before collecting herself and heading back. She’s shocked to see Geralt standing when she re-enters the room. He’s hobbling, but he’s moving around. His head snaps around to stare at her, fear and anger in his gaze. Then his face relaxes and his brow smooths.

“You’re walking.” 

“If you can call it that,” he grunts, easing himself back down onto the corner of the bed. “I don’t like being trapped in here.” 

“You aren’t trapped. We’ve just been afraid to hurt you worse, what with your feet and all-” she gestures helplessly. “Do you want to come out of the room? Dandelion’s out writing poetry. I didn’t see Yennefer.” 

“I don’t want to be paraded like some prize pet in front of strangers,” he tells her irritably. She recoils from his tone, and he inwardly curses himself. “I’m fine in here a bit longer.” 

“That’s not what you just said,” she points out. But this isn’t a situation where she can take his hands and drag him around the room. He doesn’t feel safe, it’s not just that he’s not willing to trust his body or push his own healing. He’s miserable and scared and he’s choosing to isolate himself and she’s not willing to push that. That has to be his choice. She can understand it, she’s made choices like that, and being forced into things hadn’t made her any happier. 

“I can’t walk that far,” he counters, trying to be less antagonistic with her. He doesn’t want to hurt her. His job is to protect her. “These scabs itch,” he confesses, running a hand lightly over his scalp. 

“I have salves for that,” she tells him. 

“I would be grateful if you used them.” 

She goes through the little jars and bottles left on the vanity and pulls a small fat one from the others before opening it. He sneezes violently when she uncorks it. When she brings it closer, he sneezes again, eyes watering. 

“It’s powerful,” she tells him apologetically. “But it should help more.” 

“Then why didn’t you use it before?” 

“We have. I think your nose was just too swollen for you to notice.” 

“All I could smell was blood for the first few days,” he admits, then leans forward ever so slightly to show he’ll submit to her touch. He still flinches when she reaches out her hand. He knows the movement is coming, and he knows why, and he still can’t stop his body from trying to dodge and brace itself for more pain. She carefully daubs the salve over the worst of the burns and raw spots on his scalp, and he clenches his jaw. “You failed to mention it would burn.” 

“I didn’t know,” she tells him. “It might be anything would hurt your skin,” she points out. They hadn’t wanted to bandage his head simply because so much flesh was missing and they’d been afraid the bandaging would stick and cause even greater damage when it was pulled away. She continues to spread it over his wounds anyway, since he didn’t tell her to stop. She knows it’ll help him heal. He manages to hold still throughout the entire process, but she can see the muscles clench and unclench in his neck and shoulders. She closes the jar and wipes the last of the salve on her finger on the side of his neck where she can see a burn. He twitches and she sighs and puts the jar back. 

“When it’s time to change the bandages, we’ll refresh all the ointments,” she promises. 

“I suppose it means another bath, too,” he adds dryly. 

“Well, if any of the bandages have stuck to you, it’s kinder to soak them off.” 

“I could manage on my own.” 

“You could, until you needed the bandaging put on.” 

“And when will I be trusted to manage for myself?” 

“When you’ll walk into the main hall and sit at the table with us like you used to. When you’ll remember Yennefer and Dandelion. When you can walk and move without so much pain it’s terrifying, that’s when.” 

“How do you expect me to trust any of them, or want to know them, when they won’t trust me?” 

“They do. You aren’t tied up anymore. You were never trapped here. Yennefer is keeping her end of the promise she made to you. Dandelion has kept his promise not to touch you at all unless you ask.” 

He hurts badly enough he can’t focus well on this conversation anymore. He can’t explain to her why he doesn’t trust the others. He can’t think about it, or the memories it would dredge up. He’s broken and stupid, and that’s what it is. They broke him. 

“You should go do something that doesn’t make you miserable,” he tells her softly, after a long enough pause where neither one of them says anything. 

“Being here with you doesn’t make me miserable.” 

“You could have fooled me. Go ride Kelpie about or something, try not to lame her on the ice or break your neck.” 

“I’ll be back,” she tells him. “Try not to bore yourself to death with those books Yennefer brought you.” 

He snorts and shakes his head a little at her. He glances at the books and picks up the one he’d been reading. 

**

“All’s well?” Dandelion asks when Ciri walks past him. 

“Yes, he’s sick of being in the room but he’s also refusing to leave it. I’m going to go exercise the horses a bit, and I’ll be back in.” 

“Don’t break your neck,” he tells her absently, looking at his papers. 

“I’ll try not to,” she calls back, pulling on her cloak before heading out into the cold. 

Dandelion glances up again, confused when a cup of tea ends up in front of him, “Back alrea- ah. Yennefer.” He narrows his eyes a bit. “Is this poisoned? You don’t fetch and carry for me.” He notices she looks a little distressed. 

“Whatever’s happened to his memories isn’t remotely magical in nature. It doesn’t appear to be a result of an injury either, or I could somewhat repair it. I don’t know what to do, Dandelion.” She runs a hand through her curls, picking up her own cup and taking a sip. “I won’t be poisoning your tea until I don’t need you anymore. And as long as you’re making Geralt happy I have use for you,” she adds dryly. 

He gives her a glare, and then picks up his cup to take a sip. “Neither one of us is pleasing him right now.” Then raises his eyebrow, pleased with his own double entendre. 

“No, and nothing will change if we can’t figure out what’s wrong.” 

“I’m sure we will. He’s just being especially hostile because he’s not mobile. You know how sullen and taciturn he gets when he’s miserable. He has to make sure everyone around him suffers, too.” Dandelion twirls his pen in his hand a few times, trying to think. “Although he’s never much known how to express his feelings in any other way other than to clam up.” 

“That’s not exactly something they teach in witcher training. They’re taught to _suppress_ their emotions, bard, not _express_ them. Don’t be dense. What good would it be for him to be like you? Full of emotions and flights of fancy while trying not to die killing monsters?” 

“And being less hurt when every single person he meets treats him like shit on a shoe?” he presses. “It’d be better if he didn’t feel, because then it wouldn’t hurt him when the world disappointed him time and time again.” He leans back in his chair, sipping the tea again. “You’d both like that, wouldn’t you, if you didn’t feel all that you did? It’s easier to be cold and mean than to feel anything else.” 

“Not everyone can live a fantasy life full of romances and constant cuckolding, Dandelion. Some people have to live in the real world. The one with blood, and suffering, and hatred. Not all of us can just walk up to anyone and fuck them and move on.” 

“You could very much do that last part, and you have.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says impatiently. “I mean you do it, town to town, all over the continent, you fall in and out of love and get your heart broken time and time again. And you never stop. Some of us know the world is cold and ugly. People cause wars and kill each other over nothing. The world is an awful place, you poetaster. But you, you distract yourself, glut yourself on things that don’t matter. Your own ego, sex, and it’s not like you don’t know what war does. Or what the world is. You’ve seen the aftermath, but one look at Geralt soaking wet and you’re writing ballads about his cock. Completely distracted from the world around you.” 

“I am not! I haven’t mentioned his cock once. Maybe I would just rather focus on beautiful things Although perhaps it would give him a good laugh if I did.”

“It might,” she agrees blandly. “You could also describe his many other wonderful attributes in bed. And if you sang it in public he’d choke you to death himself.” 

“Ah, true, that does put a bit of a damper on it. But see, if I just sing it to him, with the threat of singing it in public, he might still be amused. And then I can also send copies of the song out, so if he kills me they will be set loose upon the world, and everyone will know.” 

“Blackmail? I’m sure that will work.” 

“I don’t know how to convince him I’m not going to hurt him,” he tells her, setting down his emptied cup and returning to their original topic. “I don’t know if I should press him, or if that will just lead him to feel even more unsafe.” He knows looking morose won’t do anything to change the situation, but it’s how he feels and he slumps further down in his seat. “In truth I haven’t written anything in a while. I thought I might write about the destruction of the dungeon. Or perhaps something about the strength of his heart that he never gave in to betray the Lion Cub of Cintra.” 

“You can never sing that song.” 

“Well, never say never. But I know. It might go unsung for decades. But eventually the truth must come out. And the witcher and his child surprise, and their bravery will come to light. Someone should know all they’ve been through. Someone other than just us and a few dwarves.” 

“Perhaps that’s why you can’t write it. You know you can’t be the one to sing it. Your ego hates the idea someone else would popularize it long after your death.” 

“Oh, surely that’s it.” 

“Isn’t that what it always is with men?” she asks idly. “Who can prove they have the biggest cock? No matter what the situation is.” 

“I suppose clearly you have come to understand what is true of all men. No exceptions whatsoever. Nothing else is true about us, at all. It’s all about our genitals. Clearly your extended lifespan and wonderful education have made you an expert on all things to do with the male psyche,” he scoffs. 

“No, working in the courts for years and years, around men day in and day out, who do everything based on their penis, is what makes me an expert.” 

“I suppose that was quite unpleasant,” he says, realizing he’s learned a lot more about her in that one sentence than he has over the past several years. “I like to think we’re more than that. Or at least some of us.” 

“Dandelion, you sleep with more women in a day than Geralt has his entire extended lifespan. How can you possibly say that?” 

“I love them, or I might if I was able to stay longer. I care about all of them. And I think you’re underselling Geralt just a bit.” 

“Whores don’t count.” 

“True, but he might not have told you about all his conquests.” 

“Also true. It’s not something we discuss.” 

He shrugs, it’s not something he and Geralt discuss either, but he’s seen the witcher catch the eye of some people here and there. He’s done alright for himself. Not to mention somehow the great brute had landed himself the continent’s most powerful sorceress and one of the most famous bards all in one go. “Perhaps one of us should check in on him.” 

“He won’t want to see you.” 

“I know.” 

“Then I suppose I’ll go.” She stands and smooths out her skirts brusquely. Then leans in and gives Dandelion a quick kiss on the forehead. “He will remember you. And know there’s nothing remotely frightening about you.” 

“I’ll have you know I can fend for myself,” he splutters. “And I did poison all those guards without any help. I’ve traveled alone for years, and I navigate courts just fine!” 

“Except the courts where you needed Geralt to come as a bodyguard because you’d been fucking too many married women.” 

“Well-” 

“I’m off to see to our invalid,” she tells him, effectively ending the conversation as she turns her back on him and walks away. She smiles to herself, hearing him splutter behind her in annoyance. 

She knocks on the door before cracking it and looking in. She’s not trying to violate his privacy, but she’s also worried he might not be alright. He’s on the bed reading, and he looks up at her in surprise. “Your face looks better,” she comments lightly. She comes into the room slowly, keeping her hands folded in front of her so he can see them. His head glistens and she can tell Ciri put something over it. “How’re you feeling under the bandages?” 

“Sore,” he tells her dryly. “Rather like I was captured and tortured for a month.” 

“Yes well, of course you would be difficult,” she snorts. “Will you let me see?” 

He heaves a sigh, “Didn’t you just check?” 

“Funny, but it must be done daily. You know this.” 

He tugs off his shirt, grunting as his sore shoulders catch and pop. 

“When your skin has healed, we can massage some of that out,” she reassures him. He looks at her flatly. 

“Are you really doing everything you can to help me heal?” he asks. 

“How can you ask that?” 

“There’s a small hoard of jars there, full of healing medicaments, and I only recognize the smell of a few.” 

“Some cannot be applied to raw skin. Some are for ailments you don’t have.” 

“You had mentioned potions that would relieve pain. I have yet to see any. I think I’m in no danger of dying, now.” 

“I didn’t think you would trust me to brew them, much less take anything I offered. You know oft times they have soporific side effects.” 

“Is that your way of saying you intend to give me a sleeping draught disguised as pain relief?” 

“No, it’s my way of saying I knew what you would think if I had offered you anything. Your outright hostility is off-putting. We just want to help you. I will bring you something as soon as it’s brewed. I am going to check over the bandaging now.” She walks to the side of the bed, and notices how his jaw clenches. He’s afraid of her. She’d spent years with him, getting him used to her touch, to being allowed to seek comfort, to feeling safe with her, and it’s all gone. It makes her want to snap right back at him. Which helps nothing. He’s bled through in a few spots that she can see, and it looks damp in others which tells her he’s still oozing pus where he’s been burned. “These will need changing soon. I’ll leave you alone until the potions are ready. I imagine your legs look much the same?” 

“Would you like me to strip fully for you?” he asks nastily. 

“No. Would you stop acting like I take pleasure in this? I do not. This is unpleasant for both of us. It shouldn’t be like this for either of us. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop. I would never hurt you like that. I take no pleasure in it. If I could undo it I would.” She leaves the room in more of a hurry than she would like. She can’t take more of his thoughts or feelings about the situation or her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been really shitty. :{ Thank you guys for the comments you've left. You make my week a little better every update. <3


	5. Yennefer Gets Fed Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Ruusverd for the beta.  
> Thank you guys for the comments and kudos. I appreciate them a lot.

A few days of the same misery pass before Yennefer’s finally had enough. He’s hostile and rude every time she comes in, and she can’t avoid him or force Ciri to handle his care by herself. They start the day checking over bandages, and then the rest of the day trying to occupy themselves in the castle. The weather is vile, which is good for protection but bad for their health. They can’t do anything, and as such the bard and sorceress are going stir crazy. Ciri takes the horses out some, when the blizzards aren’t bad, and that keeps her somewhat occupied. 

Then around the end of the day, they get the witcher down to the baths and soak the bandages off him, and rebandage him all over again. He spends most of the days in a haze, half asleep thanks to the potions Yennefer made to help with the pain. 

He’s healing, slowly and steadily. Much quicker than a normal man, but far slower than any of them would like. They know half his savage mood is because he’s in so much pain, so they keep trying to forgive it. At least with Ciri he’s gentle and tolerant. It’s easier to remember what he was like before and believe he’ll get back to it when they see him sitting with her. 

“Come with me,” Yennefer tells him. 

“Where? It isn’t time for you to run us through the daily torture treatments.” 

“Get up, or I will make you.” 

He stands warily, glad his feet have healed enough he can walk somewhat. He’s been moving around up and down the hallway some when no one’s out to see him. He limps heavily and every sound makes him twitch, but it seems they really do not intend to guard him. He could escape any time, which gives him some solace. 

“You’ll need shoes. And the mantle we found for you.”

He tugs the pitiful leather shoes on, wishing for his boots. Then the mantle that’s been draped over the back of the chair for days. 

“Let’s go,” she tells him, knowing he won’t take her hand, even if he needs it. She doesn’t even try to touch him, just walks out the door and down the hallway. When they get to the front door, he stares at her in consternation. “Afraid?” she goads.

“Of some snow?” 

“Of having to put a little trust in me for a few minutes.” 

“I’ve been forced to trust you for quite some time now.” 

“You’ve been trusting the magical oath. And you’ve wished that you could force it on Dandelion, too.” She pushes open the door and strides out, not checking to see if he’s following. 

He swears blackly and trails her out into the cold, shutting the door behind them. The cold feels good on his feet, and the rest of him, if he’s being honest. It isn’t easy to keep up with her, and he finds himself stretching his legs to try and catch up. He uses several expletives to describe how he feels about her, and the walk she’s taking him on. 

When Yennefer reaches the stable door, she pauses and waits for him, the wind and snow swirling her hair around and making a mess of it. He feels an unbidden urge to tuck some of it behind her ear. 

She doesn’t say a word, just walks into the stables once he’s behind her and he follows. They pass Dandelion’s useless gelding Pegasus, Ciri’s Kelpie, Yen’s palfrey, and reach Geralt’s Roach. The little mare pricks her ears forward when she sees him approaching, and prances a bit in her stall, nostrils blowing as she takes in his scent. 

“Roach?” he asks stupidly. He’d let himself remember her name. He steps into the stall without any hesitation, letting her snuffle all over him, and lip at his clothes. He has nothing to feed her, but it hardly matters. Geralt tangles his fingers in his mare’s mane, hanging tightly to her neck when his knees buckle a little. He hasn’t walked that far in over a month. “Roach,” he says again, just as confused as before. “She was a gift,” he says slowly, breathing in the scent of horse and stable. Roach tucks her head around his shoulder and back in a horse-hug and he feels his eyes well with tears. Not that he understands why. “She was a gift. From… someone important to me. I’ve never had a horse since she was a filly, never had one trained _for_ me, but this Roach is. She’s been mine her whole life,” bits and pieces of memories are crashing around in his head.

Yennefer walks up to the stall door and lets the mare sniff her over. Roach gives a delighted whicker. Only Ciri has been out to see her of late, and she’s known Yennefer and Geralt her whole life. 

“You, you gave her to me,” he turns to Yennefer. “You had a favored mare and you had her bred just for me,” tears run over his cheeks and his chest squeezes. It's like he can't get a proper breath in. “You found someone to train her to be unafraid of witchers and monsters, and battles… she’s a wonderful horse, Yen. She’s spirited, and wonderful… I met her, after she was foaled. I remember, you showed her off without telling me why. I was there when they were teaching her the bridle, and you gave me a handful of sugar cubes for her.” 

“I know,” she says softly. “You’d admired the mare before, you’ve been somewhat decent at appraising horseflesh as long as I’ve known you. Although, sometimes you end up with a horse that’s a piece of shit and you get attached and keep it. You can be thickheaded and stubborn.” 

“Witchers don’t feel attachment,” he rubs Roach’s neck, letting her lip at his palm before he pets her soft nose. She nuzzles him, almost knocking him over. He takes several shuddering breaths, unable to discern what's wrong with him. He feels almost like he's dying. It's hard to breathe and his vision is blurred. 

“Is that why you’re crying?” she asks. 

He touches his face in horror. “I know you,” he tells her bleakly. “I know you. You, we, you saved… I can’t, there was apple juice… I don’t,” he can’t step away from the horse because if he does, he knows he’ll fall. His legs hurt, his chest hurts and his head is swimming. “We, we were together, I never slept with anyone like you before. No one ever treated me like you did,” he tells her, voice shaking.

She wants to touch him, to reassure him but the magical vow binds her until he releases her from it. She holds out a hand, offering it. He doesn’t see it, he’s looking past her. 

“I put it all away, so no one could pull it out of me. If you’re tortured, you focus on what you will say, not what you won’t. I put everything away, and I forgot you. How could I forget you, Yennefer? I had to. I had to so I couldn’t tell them where you were, they would hurt Ciri. They would hurt our daughter.” He sees her hand and takes a step away from Roach. Reaching for her hand and missing, he falls into her arms. He can’t manage to stand up, and he ends up dragging her down into the hay with him. “I’ve been cruel to you,” he tells her miserably. “Ciri told me, and I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t, I’m sorry, Yen, I’m so sorry.” 

“Do you release me from the vow?” she asks softly, unable to do anything since there’s no reason to touch him in regard to healing. 

“I do, I’m sorry. Thank you for swearing it, I’m sorry Yennefer.” 

“Stop,” she tells him, uncomfortable. She wraps her arms around him all the same, gently stroking the stubble at the base of his skull. His hair is still soft and bristly, and it won’t be stubble for much longer. Careful of his injuries, she does what she can to comfort him without hurting him worse. She wishes Dandelion was there, instead. Feelings are more his purview. The bard would much prefer this kind of emotional display than she would. And he’d be better equipped to handle it, too. She’s never had anyone to comfort her tears, and she’s not sure what to do for him. “I love you,” she says hesitantly. Not sure what would help. It’s not as if he knows, either. His sobs rack his whole body and she's afraid he's going to hurt himself.

It’s small comfort to her, but he has no idea how to handle what’s happening any more than she does. “Don’t apologize, you didn’t ask for any of this.” That’s true at least. Some comfort perhaps. “You did what was right. You kept Ciri safe. You were good and brave and you protected us.” She keeps stroking at his hair, letting him sob against her. He clings to her, wrinkling her dress and shaking both their bodies with the force of his grief. Unable to stroke his back, she remembers a spot on his side that's mostly healed and runs a hand up and down his ribs gently. She wants to tell him not to hurt himself. It seems like the wrong thing to say so she just tells him it's alright. 

Time loses meaning for her, it might have been minutes or hours, and she imagines he feels much the same. Underneath all of the humiliation and shame he’s currently feeling, at the very least. “Don’t be ashamed,” she tells him softly, thinking about the scars on her wrists. “Don’t be ashamed of being hurt. You survived. They didn’t.” She rocks them both gently and that seems to help. He's starting to settle. Gently shushing him and reminding him she loves him, she rocks them both gently back and forth. 

His breathing is still ragged, but it’s slowing. Just as the sobs are stopping. Roach leans over to snuffle their hair, and she pushes the horse’s nose gently away. “He’s alright, you ridiculous beast. He’s just fine.” She kisses his temple. She holds him until he pulls away and isn’t sure what to do when he won’t meet her eyes. “Geralt?” 

“I’m alright, Yen. Must be some of that leftover cellular memory,” he tries to force a laugh, but new tears track down his scarred cheeks. 

“Must be,” she agrees, stroking his cheek rather than fighting him. “It’s alright, even if it isn’t. I won’t tell anyone.” She kisses him gently, and he pulls back. “I hate this beard,” she informs him. “You need to trim it,” trying to change the subject. When he tries to grind a fist into his eyes, she hisses at him. 

“Mayhap I should shave it entirely?” He lets her wipe the tears off his face. It's not as if he can see them. 

“If it was shaped right, it might be quite fetching,” she smiles. He frowns and she feels her smile drop. “Can you not accept that I like you fine as you are?” She cups his cheek and meets his eyes. “You don’t have to believe it of anyone else, but can’t you believe it of me? I know that spell worked, the three of us…you don’t remember, do you? Because Dandelion was there and you don’t remember him. Oh, Geralt.” 

He pulls away again, shuddering a little. It’s not exactly warm in the stables. Not that it’s cold enough to make the horses uncomfortable, but it’s certainly not as warm as his room in the castle. Or the bathing chambers. He presses his forehead to hers for a few moments. “I love you,” he tells her. Then pulls away and gets up slowly. Roach helpfully chooses the perfect time to headbutt him again and he catches hold of her mane and uses her to steady himself. 

Unsure of what to do, Yennefer gets up and reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. He flinches away, lip curling to show his teeth. “I… I’m sorry.” She drops her hand. 

“I am, too,” he tells her, unsteady. “I remember you,” he tries to promise. But he has no way to explain to her how much he doesn’t want or deserve comfort from her. Or anyone else. He should have found a way to do something differently. Not get captured. The things they’d said while they were hurting him, it all made sense. He’s not deserving of her love or her affections. It almost hurts him, to know what they’d had and to be reminded he shouldn’t have it. “I’d like to go inside, please, I’m worn out, I think.” 

“You don’t have to ask,” she tells him, voice equally soft and careful. “You’re free to come and go as you please. That was our bargain. You stay as long as you want. You leave when you please. I just asked that you stay until you were healthy enough to go on your own way. You’re not a prisoner here, Geralt. You never have been.” 

“I know, I know that, I’m sorry.” He snugs the mantel around himself better and steps away. He makes his way back alone to the castle and stumbles to his room. 

Yennefer secures the stall door and heads out, making sure the horses have water and feed before securing the stable doors themselves. She walks back slowly, not sure what went wrong. She hadn’t expected him to remember, if she was being honest. She thought he’d somehow wiped her and Dandelion from his memory entirely. But if he can remember her, he can remember the poet.

He’d been devastated. Filled with self-loathing. And still afraid of being touched. 

When their relationship had started, he’d been oddly wary of kindness. He hadn’t sought out any touches from her, or affections. With time he’d learned he could though. He’d learned he could tell her when he wanted to bed her, and that he could kiss her when he wanted. At first, he’d seemed to feel their relationship existed solely on her terms for her pleasure and he was just there, passive. She could read minds and was having none of it, thankfully. She'd made sure he felt good, too. Made sure when the fear swamped him, they stopped. Not that she'd ever planned on doing any of the things he seemed upset by. 

_She'd tried once, a simple experiment. He never said stop, he never did anything to indicate he didn't want something, and she wanted to know if he would stop if she asked. If he understood that asking was an option. For himself or her. He'd been getting more comfortable with her, finding out she never did anything he didn't want her to. And so once she had asked him to stop, and he had. Immediately, mid-thrust, he'd frozen. Unsure if he should pull away or just stay still, he'd waited, clearly wondering what he'd done wrong and horrified he might have upset or hurt her. Yennefer had felt beastly, she hadn't meant for him to spiral out like that._

_"Here, roll over. On your back, please."_

_He had, frissons of fear sparking at the edges of his mind. He'd upset her, but he was unwilling to leave or pull away. He'd take whatever she did to him because it meant he could stay._

_"Geralt, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so close, I'd meant to do this earlier." It's a lie. She hadn't expected him to panic. She chose to make it up to him. She settled between his thighs and kissed her way up. It was easy enough to make sure he wasn’t merely tolerating it but enjoying himself. The relief he'd felt when she'd just started with kissing his leg had been palpable, magic or no magic._

_Yennefer had further confounded him by allowing him to climax and then not seeking one of her own. He'd tried, helplessly until she told him she would be alright this once. She'd wanted to make sure he felt replete. It had been about him. It hadn't started that way. She'd meant to fuck his brains out to both their satisfaction. But then she'd upset him. After that she'd lost all interest in finishing. Too many years at court seeing into the minds of the vilest people on the planet. Being surrounded by all those monsters had made her sure she was one, too. Then Geralt had walked into her life. He’d thrown everything into chaos._

His mind wasn’t like anyone else’s. He was rough around the edges to be sure. The beast-like attributes weren’t natural, they were learned. Forced. Inside, he’d been kind. Concerned for others, wanting to save his friend. He’d felt genuine affection and bonds with the people in his life. Nenneke. The poet. The more she’d been around him and seen inside of him the more she felt neither one of them were the monsters. She’d found she wanted to protect that affection he had for her and wanted him to feel good with her the way she did with him. Slowly, he’d warmed up to her. Slowly, he’d felt safe with her. It’s not as if she’d been less cold, or less aloof. It was just that he’d come to learn she wasn’t lying when she said she loved him. 

They had ugly fights, to be sure. Their relationship was far from perfect. It was composed of two badly broken people desperately trying to understand how things should work, and neither one of them did. But all the same, they’d flowered in each other’s presence. He’d been comfortable being near her, and she’d stopped scaring him entirely. He felt safe and comfortable around her. Now, he can’t stand being near her. And he knows her, he remembers all that they had and he still won’t be near her. 

“Yennefer?” Dandelion asks, startling her out of her reverie. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re just standing there. You’ve been frozen it feels for minutes now. Are you alright?” 

“You saw Geralt?” 

“No, why?” 

“He must have made it back to his room before you came out.” 

“I can check. Are you alright?” 

“He remembered me,” she slips off her cloak, hanging it up to dry. She shakes some of the snow out of her hair, but a great deal has already melted into it. “He remembered me and he still wanted nothing to do with me.” 

The poet gets up smoothly and walks over unflinchingly and wraps his arms around her. Surprised, she freezes for a moment and then melts into him. He swears briefly for a moment but doesn’t let go even when she tenses. “You’re dripping ice water down my shirt,” he explains and she laughs into his shoulder. It’s better than crying. 

Ciri comes up the stairs, surprised to see the sorceress and poet getting along well enough to embrace. She braids back her damp hair, having just finished bathing. She chooses not to interrupt whatever’s happening and instead to go to her rooms for a few minutes before braving a visit with Geralt. 

“Do you remember what he was like before?” Dandelion asks Yennefer softly. 

“I do.” 

“He hated any time anyone touched him.” 

“He didn’t hate it. It terrified him.” 

“Several times I thought he might take a chunk out of my hand. But he never did. And eventually he stopped being hostile. Eventually he let me get close. We could share a bed. Not the way you encouraged us to, but he let me sleep at his side.” He and Geralt had never admitted to feeling more. Of course, the witcher had felt he didn’t love at all, what little he had left belonged entirely to the enchantress. Unsurprisingly he was wrong, and he had plenty of love to go around. “I never realized it scared him. I thought he just came to barely tolerate me. Used to humans being obnoxious, or something,” he flutters a hand. 

“He was so unused to kindness, it terrified him. He had no idea what game he thought you were playing. Or when you would turn on him. Or what he’d have to do to keep you as his friend.” She shifts her head on his shoulder. “Then he realized that he didn’t have to do anything. Not really. Just let you follow along and make sure you didn’t die.” She sighs heavily. "I'm not accustomed to playing nursemaid." 

"You aren't. Not really. He's walking around now. He needs less care. If he can make it to the stables he can fetch his own food. You were playing healer, before. I think that you can relax now, some, don't you?" 

"If I thought he wasn't too stubborn to starve himself alone in those chambers."

"Well if he remembers you then surely he knows if I laid a finger on him you'd fashion my entrails into a belt in no time flat rather than let it happen again." 

Yennefer pulls away, feeling better. She allows the bard to kiss her cheek. "I'm much more creative than that." 

"I'm sure you are." Feeling oddly compelled, he leans in and kisses her lips. It’s nothing more than a quick brush of skin on skin, and he pulls away. It isn’t meant to be anything more than a touch of comfort. “You’d best go dry off and warm up,” he tells her quietly. “Perhaps I’ll go press him next, see how annoyed I can make him.” 

“Be careful, he can be beastly when he chooses.” 

“I well know,” he informs her dryly. “I’ve known him longer than he’s known you.” 

She smiles. “But I made it into his bed first,” she teases. 

“He has always loved a nice set of tits. I can’t fault him.” 

“Oh, you have, and you do.” 

“True, but now I see that you’re just as monstrous as he is. That is to say, not at all. It’s an act at best. I still don’t know if I like you,” he purses his lips and strokes his chin dramatically and she laughs. “But I love him, and he loves you. And so, suffer I must.” He gathers up his papers and decides to see if Geralt will let him write in the same room. There won’t be a need for interaction but perhaps he can convince the witcher to let him be near again. Then he might be more willing to leave his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been so bad I've almost walked out and given up on life entirely. Fuck this damn pandemic. I hope you guys are doing way better. I'll try and have another chapter edited next weekend. I will attempt to keep up weekly updates until we hit the end of the 14 chapters I currently have done. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to those of you leaving sweet comments and saying hi. You make the days I get them a little brighter.


	6. Geralt Gives Everyone a Scare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. :{   
> Thanks as always to my cheerleader, Ruusverd. And thank you for the book rec, for Echoes of the Fall. I think your Witcher AU is better. <3   
> Thanks for the comments/kudos. I appreciate you guys. P much the only reason I got it together to post today was concern I was letting people down even tho I'm p sure no one's all that worried/excited about an update :P Hope you guys enjoy and are having a really good week or that a good week is on it's way. Be safe.

Ciri is already in the room, arguing heatedly with Geralt about a book. She’s jabbing the page animatedly and the blood is rising in her cheeks. His eyes are sparking, and they seem to be enjoying themselves. Dandelion pauses, not wanting to interrupt, but also desperately wishing he could have seen how this started. They both look up when he tries to muffle a laugh. 

Geralt recoils and Ciri looks at him, trying to avoid looking too pained. It’s ridiculous that they can be shouting at each other and then Dandelion walks in and Geralt’s flinching away. 

To Ciri he’d seemed better, almost, when she’d first come in. He’d been covered in horsehair and hay and had looked less lost than usual. 

“I was just hoping I could work in here. I won’t disturb you any.” 

“You already have,” Geralt says icily. 

“Of course,” Ciri says at the same time, then shoots Geralt a glare. She hops up off the bed to clear the small vanity some. She moves aside small pots of salves and tinctures so Dandelion has room to put his papers down. “Are you writing a new song?” she asks, coming over to look. Once he sits at the table, she sits on his lap for a few moments, looking over the pages. “They’re mostly blank,” she tells him. 

“Ah, well. Some of them I’m glad I left elsewhere, it wouldn’t do for you to see them. But true, I’ve been rather in a slump as of late.” 

“Are you writing those sort of bawdy songs grandmother liked?” 

“I don’t think she liked much of anything I did, but all the same I was still invited the once. It might have been a concession to your mother if I’m being quite honest.”

“I have heard the Fishmonger song, Dandelion. If you think whatever you’re writing is worse, I shudder to think what it might be about,” she teases. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard and done a great many things. It doesn’t mean I have to be the one teaching it to you. Your fa-.... Geralt would be displeased with me. Although, as of late he always is, isn’t he?” 

“I thought you weren’t going to disturb us,” Geralt points out nastily, getting up and leaving the room on unsteady feet. They still hurt and he hates showing how weak he is. It takes a great deal of willpower to not vomit up his breakfast as he walks, the pain is so bad. 

Almost halfway to the table, a noise behind him startles him and he throws out an arm as he turns, striking -not hard, but hard enough. Dandelion hits the ground with a whoosh of breath as it’s knocked out of him, coughing and choking. 

“Dammit Geralt,” he coughs, “What the bleeding fuck was that for?” he asks, as Ciri checks him over. “I’m alright, Ciri, I’m fine, he didn’t do any damage to anything other than my ass.” He pauses, gives her a grin and waggles his eyebrows. “Surely he’s never done that before,” he teases.

“Gross.” She stands up to let him put himself to rights without her help. “But I suppose if you have time to be horrid, you’re just fine.” She turns to Geralt, “Why would you do that? He’s just a bard!” 

“Oy!” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Geralt tells her shakily, but his face darkens in anger. “I didn’t ask you to come sneaking up behind me!” he snaps at Dandelion. 

“Why is the bard on the floor?” Yennefer asks, book in hand and her curls in disarray around her shoulders as she peers out of a door to the end of the hall. She walks closer, taking in Geralt’s defensive posture and Ciri’s distress. 

“The bard is getting up,” Dandelion huffs, a hand pressed to his chest where Geralt had stiff-armed him. “Oh, that rather hurt,” he pulls back his chemise to look. “I think I’m going to bruise.” 

“How can you tell under that carpet you have attached to your chest?” Yennefer asks. Then thinks for a moment. “Geralt, did you hit Dandelion?” She looks at him and sees it in his face. “You’re stronger than he is, even like this. Did it occur to you that you might kill him?” she demands. 

“It wasn’t intentional!” Geralt snaps. “Although now I rather wish it had been if I’m going to be blamed for it like this! He came up behind me! How was I to know he didn’t mean any harm or even who he was!?” he snarls. 

“You can’t just go around hitting people!” Ciri tells him. “You’ve told me that, my grandmother told me that, so why are you doing it?” 

“ _He_ startled _me!_ ” Geralt growls, done with this. “You think if I’m attacked, I won’t defend myself?!” 

“You weren’t attacked!” Yennefer tells him, yanking the front of Dandelion’s shirt forward so she can make sure nothing is broken. Geralt’s more than strong enough to have cracked his sternum. And since the bard is still wheezing, it’s possible he did. 

“Oww…” Dandelion flinches back. “You were much gentler with Geralt,” he protests. 

“He was hurt far worse. And perhaps I shouldn’t have been if he’s going to go around hitting you.” 

“I’m touched, I never thought you’d much care if -oww, Yennefer. That _hurts._ ”

“Quit bitching, you’re fine. He didn’t break anything.” She turns to yell at the witcher, but he’s gone. “Ciri…?” 

“He went outside. It’s not as if he’ll get far.” 

“There’s horses.” 

“You think in his condition he’ll make it out of the courtyard?” she asks, interested in the answer. 

“No, I highly doubt he could even saddle Roach, much less ride her. Although he is stubborn. I suppose he might kill himself trying. If we hear hoofbeats we’ll check on him.” 

**

Geralt barely makes it into the stables, forget to Roach’s stall. She whinnies when she hears him. He drags himself stall door by stall door and tries to ignore the snorts of the other horses. He knows full well that he still smells of blood and that it will make the horses antsy. Except Roach. His wonderful, stubborn, battle-ready mare. She leans her head out, stretching as far as she can to reach him. He’s never understood people who don’t like horses. Even horses like Kelpie or Pegasus. They’re likable enough in their own way. For once, the little black mare doesn’t try to take a chunk out of him as he works past her stall to Roach’s. The minute he’s within reach she’s lipping at his clothes and almost knocking him down in her search for sugar. 

“I didn’t bring you anything,” he tells her. “I didn’t think I would be out here just yet.” Her mane is all that’s keeping him upright, and he fidgets with the latch until he can get the stall open. Roach snuffles, and then lightly headbutts him in the chest. He catches himself, clinging to her and she snorts in surprise. “I’m not exactly at my best right now. I don’t smell this bad because I’m the picture of health, you know.” 

He manages to make it into her stall. It’s been mucked recently which is a small blessing. With the door closed and secured, he flops down into the hay and hopes she won’t trample him. “I’ve been cocking it all up, Roach,” he says heavily. “I can’t stop pissing Yen off, and at some point I think she might actually turn me into a gewgaw.” With a sigh, he strokes her cheek when she leans down to lip at his shirt. Roach likes when he scratches under her chin, and so he obliges, ignoring the hair that floats down to coat his clothes. “She threatens it every so often. I might irritate her enough she’ll do it for real.” 

Geralt falls asleep talking to her, as she nibbles his hair and checks him over. It worries her that he’s not doing any of the things he normally does when he visits her in the stables. Eventually the other horses get used to the smell of blood in their quiet stable, and calm. 

**

“I thought you said he remembered you.” 

“Not in a way that felt real,” Yennefer says softly, touching her necklace. “I won’t use magic to force anything on him,” she looks at Dandelion. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” 

“Ciri, will you please go… study elsewhere. Please.” 

“Yennefer, I’m hardly a child-”

“It’s not that. Please, it’s not that.” 

“Yennefer, please-” 

“Ciri,” Yen says softly. “There are some things people say about their lovers that are not things they want their children to hear. Good or bad. Please, go.” 

Ciri looks at her, and then nods. She’s somewhat surprised the sorceress didn’t just yell at her and demand she go. This has clearly been a harrowing experience for all of them. There had been so much screaming and recrimination while Geralt was gone.

“I don’t think he knows what to believe,” she tells Dandelion once Ciri is gone.

“Why wouldn’t he trust his own memories?” 

“Because we’re telling him there’s others he’s missing, so how can he know what’s real? We weren’t real to him not that long ago.” 

“I hate this, Yennefer. I hate all of this. I hate this being on the run. I hate that I can’t sleep, I hate he’s suffering like this. I hate that we’re suffering, I hate that he isn’t healing faster. I hate that if you use too much magic to try and heal him, you’ll burn him up and kill him anyway. I just want all of it fixed already,” the bard complains. “I understand why it's not, I understand that he has to do things in his own time...and I just. I want to help him. I want to help him, and ease his pain, and he won’t let me. He won’t let me anywhere near him,” his voice cracks. He looks down the front of his shirt at the bruise decorating his chest. It’ll take days for it to heal. 

“Would you like me to give you bruise balm?” 

“No, it should serve as a reminder. He’s in pain, far worse than a bruise. Especially one that was accidentally inflicted. Perhaps it will stop me being so eager to try and hold him. I imagine it would hurt.” 

“He is healing. He’s walking on his own. He’s able to see. I’m fairly certain he’s feeding himself. Cleaning himself,” she twirls a lock of hair idly. “It won’t be too much longer. It took them a month to tear his body apart, I should expect it will take us twice as long to put him back together. Bones alone usually take a month or more. He’s already healed those.” 

“With your magics.” 

“Yes. And each time I speed up his healing, I take from his body’s resources. And mine.” She’s exhausted and worn down. “We both need time. Not to mention the artificial healing is less powerful than natural healing.” 

“So in a few days, you try again?” he asks, Oxenfurt hadn’t really prepared him for falling in love with a witcher, and then sharing him with one of the most powerful sorceresses on the entire continent. “Or, since he’s over the worst of it, you let him finish out on his own?” 

“I think we see how he’s doing, and then let him finish out on his own. He can hobble around enough as he pleases. He should start to feel less antsy if he’d go out on his own. Which he did, today, at least.” 

“Because I upset him and chased him out of a room. He never used to run away from me. He used to try and drive me off verbally, but he never left me. Or refused to be in a room with me.” 

“Interesting,” she comments, feigning boredom. 

“He’s never been like that with me. I’ve never had anyone afraid of me, really.” 

“We’re always afraid of you and that infernal lute. It’s just a different kind of fear. More a vague dislike, I suppose.” 

“Ah thank you, that’s truly helpful to me right now.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says, only somewhat sincere. “I suppose that’s not what you want to hear at all, is it?” 

“No, but I suppose going to _you_ for comfort wasn't a good move on my part. That was all burned out of you many lifetimes ago.” She looks at him sharply, violet eyes flashing and he wonders if he crossed a line or hit a nerve, or both. “Perhaps I’ll go work alone on my novel, or play some songs, and leave you be.” 

“Perhaps you should,” she agrees shortly. When he leaves, she gets up to go find Ciri and quiz her over the herbs she’d been learning. After that she intends to lie down for a bit, let her magic continue to fill back up. She’s extremely tired from being on edge all the time. 

**

Geralt hobbles his way back into the hall quietly, half expecting to find three angry people waiting for him. Surprised it’s empty, he haltingly makes his way to his room and crawls into the bed, exhausted. 

Several nightmares later, he crawls out of the bed, taking a blanket with him and heading out into the main hall. There’s always something left out to eat, and he stuffs apples into his pockets along with some rolls down the front of his shirt before making his way back out to the stables. 

He almost blacks out before he can make it into Roach’s stall, exhaustion seeking to claim him. However, when the playful mare notices he has apples for her, her constant sniffing and nibbling at his clothes keeps him awake until he pulls one free and hands it to her. She delicately takes it from him and consumes it. 

For once, he shows some common sense and forces himself to eat the rolls and an apple of his own. He offers her a second apple, knowing too many and he’ll deeply regret sleeping in her stall. The others he’ll save for another day. She leans over him to lip at his pockets, searching for more treats and he gently shoves her muzzle away. “Enough, Roach.” She blows a wad of spit at his side, annoyed with him. “I don’t want to sleep in here if you’re going to have the shits from too many apples,” he tells her, thankful she chose not to spit on him. Just at him. “I’ll feed them to Kelpie if you won’t leave off,” he threatens and she stops immediately. He squints at her, half wondering if she’s been magicked to understand speech or if she’s just used to his tone and knows he’s had enough. 

Too exhausted to ruminate further, he drags his blanket over himself and falls into a deep sleep. 

**

Ciri carries a tray into Geralt’s room, unsurprised to find the windows still drawn and the room dark. He doesn’t need much light to see by as it is. Not to mention he’s not at a point where he’s up to wasting energy doing needless tasks. She sets the tray down on the small table and opens the blinds, turning to look at him.

Only he isn’t there.

Panic grips her, and she freezes in fear. The bed is rumpled and a blanket is missing. He left on his own power, it wasn’t a fight, nothing bad happened. He’s left on his own. He left her. He left her alone, he’s gone. 

Yennefer rushes in half awake, alerted to the panic in her daughter. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t know!” Ciri shrieks.

“Oh stop it, don’t lose your head,” Yen snaps, and shuts the girl up. “He might have just gone for a bath.” The room reeks of sweat. So much so even a regular human nose can breathe it in. “He probably had bad dreams and went to clean up.” 

“You change out the sheets, I’ll go check downstairs.” She walks past the bard as she hurries down the hallway and he picks up some of her urgency and trails after her in confusion. When Geralt isn’t down in the bathing chambers, either, she hurries back up. There’s apples missing from the fruit bowl. Just apples, no winter pears or anything else. “Oh fuck it all,” she sighs deeply. “Ciri!” she calls. “Change into pants and be out here in a moment.” She sees the girl blanch and sighs. “Dandelion get a cloak, don’t be an idiot.” 

Ciri reappears in moments, breathless as she rushes down the hallway, pants on and sword belt strapped to her back. 

“I doubt you’ll need that. Unless it’s to give him a hiding with.” 

“Just in case he didn’t leave on his own.” 

“If we hurry up we should be able to follow any hoofprints in the snow before they’re covered or swept away by the wind,” the bard points out. 

The trio rushes out into the snow, “There’s no tracks!” Ciri points out bitterly. 

“He could have left during the night. Would he have the strength to ride bareback?” Dandelion asks, as they break into a light run towards the stables.

“Damned fool probably fell off the horse somewhere in the woods, or got stranded,” Yennefer snorts. 

They all freeze when they see Roach poke her head over the stall door. “Oh fuck,” the bard says softly. “Oh damn it all, what if he left on foot? Knew he couldn’t ride and just decided to walk?” Moaning and complaining as they make their way to the stall, “Melitele’s tits, Yennefer, what was he _thinking?”_

“We’ll get Roach, saddle her up, and take her out and we’ll find him. He can’t have gotten far. We’ll shove his arse back up on the horse, take him back. We’ll truss him like a pig if we have to.” 

“Why would he leave me?” Ciri asks in a small voice, and Dandelion looks back at her. 

“I don’t think that he’s in his right mind. Perhaps he just went for a walk and hurt himself and can’t come back. We don’t know what he was thinking or what his intent was.” As he passes Kelpie’s stall he forgets to dodge her and if not for Ciri the little black mare would have taken a chunk of his arm. She shoves him forward and swears at her horse.

“We do not bite Dandelion!” She snaps, and the mare’s eyes roll when Yennefer walks past her. 

“She probably likes how the bard squeals like a pig,” Yennefer smiles, despite her fear for Geralt. “I don’t, but it is quite loud.” 

When they reach Roach’s stall, she shifts about some, and pins her ears back.

“That’s odd,” Dandelion comments, usually the mare is friendly with them. Especially Yennefer. 

“She’s guarding something,” Ciri points out. 

“Is he in the damn stall?” Yennefer asks, almost as if she’s talking to the horse. “Is he in there with Roach?” She gets closer and Roach stomps a foreleg. “Don’t you start with me. I saw you foaled and I’ll unmake you if it pleases me.” Unsurprised when Roach puts her hoof down quietly and backs up a bit, she leans over the stall door and peers in. “He’s asleep. Somehow. Through all the noise. He’s fine,” she looks back at her companions. She looks around for a bucket of water to throw over him, to wake him, and decides it’s not worth ruining the hay. Or having to move Roach to a new stall. 

“He hasn’t woken up from all this?” Dandelion asks, “I highly doubt he’s fine.” He gets up to the door and sees the witcher, curled under a blanket, deeply asleep. He looks almost peaceful yet it’s obvious he’s still in some pain. And the bard highly doubts the hay poking into his wounds feels very good at all. “Oh, Geralt, were you that scared in the castle?” he asks softly, leaning on the door. He feels more than sees Ciri join him. 

“I should have stayed with him more.” 

“No, Ciri. Don’t blame yourself. It’s good he’s doing something other than sitting alone in that room.” 

“I’m going inside. I don’t need to see him again until he’s bathed,” Yennefer tells them. “Unless he’s bleeding and it won’t stop.” 

“This might be the first true sleep he’s gotten since he was rescued,” the bard tells the witcher girl, flapping a hand at Yennefer. “I’ll leave, so he feels safe when he wakes.” For all it tears the heart from his chest to know Geralt doesn’t feel safe with him. He would give anything to hold the other man again. “When he’s awake, if you choose to stay, try not to be angry with him. Yennefer has plenty of that waiting, he doesn’t need more.” 

Ciri hugs him tightly when he kisses her forehead. She watches for a few moments as he leaves, and then slips into Roach’s stall. Geralt is so deeply asleep he hardly twitches when she presses her palm to his forehead. There’s no fever, and she gently touches his cheek and then his ear. No fever, perhaps, but he is a bit chilled. The stables aren’t cold, but they certainly aren’t warm. Usually he gives off heat, but as tightly as he’s curled under the blanket she has a feeling he’s cold. With a heavy sigh, she unfastens her cloak and spreads it half over him, before tucking herself against his chest and doing her best to keep the thick wool between her and the hay. She doesn’t want it poking at her. 

He grunts and shifts in his sleep a bit, wrapping an arm around her. She can smell the stink of flop-sweat and knows full well why he’s chosen to sleep in the barn with Roach. He feels safer with her. Even if he didn’t now also smell of horse and stable, he’d still have needed a bath to wash all the sweat off. It hardly matters to her how he smells, as long as he smells alive. Burying her face in his shirt, she clings to the fabric with both hands. With nothing better to do, she falls back asleep. 

Geralt wakes up much warmer than he had been when he’d fallen asleep. Confused, he breathes in before opening his eyes. Ciri. She’s curled into his chest, mindful of truly being close to him, she’s still found a way to curl up near him. He shifts some, not sure if she’s awake or not. He feels like his senses have been dull as of late. The pain has been overwhelming and he hasn’t had time to process much else. Kissing the top of her head, he’s unbearably thirsty. 

“Papa?” Ciri asks in a slurred voice as she wakes up, blinking slowly. 

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer that. He gently touches her hair, and she looks at him and smiles. He smiles back, feeling the expression tug on the scabs on his face. He lets the expression drop, but she shifts and kisses his forehead. 

“You frightened us,” she chides him. “I went in with breakfast, and you weren’t there,” she tries to find something else to tell him. But she wants him to know he hurt her. “I thought you left without me again,” her voice cracks. 

“I wouldn’t,” he protests softly, feeling helpless to reassure her. In spite of the discomfort, he wraps an arm around her, bringing her against his chest. “I’d never go anywhere without you again. I won’t have us separated, Ciri.” His mouth is too dry to speak much more and he coughs and does his best to find words that she’ll believe. He can’t. 

“We need to get you inside,” she says briskly, rubbing at her eyes. “And fed and cleaned. You smell like the stable.” 

“You do, now, too,” he croaks, trying to give her a small smile. She narrows her eyes in an attempt to be annoyed at him and fails. With her help, he makes it onto his feet. She puts her cloak back on and insists he put the blanket over his shoulders. It’s been snowing again, and the sky had been grey with clouds. No sense in him taking a chill. “I’m not an invalid.” 

“Actually, you very much are,” she tells him snippily. “And a particularly stupid one, at that,” she huffs. She ignores his ‘hmm’ of displeasure and helps him walk back to the castle. He’s still terribly unsteady on his feet. “Now I get to pick hay out of your back, I’m sure. You couldn’t have brought two blankets? One to put under you?” 

He ignores her chiding the entire way back. Just like he ignores her as she helps him down the steps to the bathing chamber and continues to ignore her as he steps fully clothed into one of the deeper pools. She’d tried to angle him to the shallow one, and he’d managed to slip her just enough to step off the ledge into the proper one. It felt good, and he inhaled deep and let his body float in the water. The other pool was far too shallow and sitting in it hurt after a short while. 

“Don’t fall asleep!” she snaps at him, stripping down to her shift and slipping into the water after him. “Dammit, Geralt. You didn’t even know for sure how deep the pool was! What if you’d judged wrong and hurt yourself?!” 

“Your screaming would bring the others, I’m sure,” he tells her, opening one eye to look at her. 

“Are you that eager to kill yourself?” 

“I very much don’t intend to die from this.” 

“I hope you can get your own wet clothes off, so I can see all those wounds. And I don’t know what your plan is for getting out of the pool. Dandelion can help you out, but Yennefer and I can't, not without using magic.” 

“There’s steps,” he tells her. 

“You hope there’s steps! Try not to fall asleep while I go get my kit,” she tells him. 

“Ciri.” 

“What?” 

“I’m sorry I scared you.” 

Her face softens, and the scar on her cheek looks less severe. “I’m still mad at you.” 

“I know.” 

“Alright then. Don’t die before I get back.” 

When Ciri gets back, she isn’t alone. She has help. Geralt breathes a sigh of annoyance that no one will hear when he hears three sets of footsteps, not just one. He allows Dandelion to help haul him out of the pool and get him to a bench. As promised, Ciri lets him struggle out of his wet clothes, and she only helps him with the bandaging. It takes him quite a bit of effort to get out of his shirt and pants, and by the time he’s managed it he’s out of energy. 

Yennefer peels the bandaging off his back and arms, as Ciri unwinds it from his legs. “I think we can leave some of this off now,” she smiles. His back is still a lacerated mess, but it’s healing. He strips the bandages off his hands, trying not to flinch or fuss much. 

He lets them treat him like a rag doll for a few moments, looking over his injuries. “Can I go back into the water?” he asks irritably. “It was warm.” 

Dandelion gets in closer and sees the goosebumps that have broken out all over his skin. “Will it hurt him any to just soak?” he asks, and Geralt glares at him. “I am not trying to pretend you aren’t in the room, you’re just not the person I’m asking the question of.” 

“Dandelion, try not to lose focus,” Yennefer sighs. She is currently looking over Geralt’s back. “I think the skin will stay in place. I think it’s healing and attaching itself. We cut away most of what wouldn’t. He’s got some new skin. Most of the places they tried to skin you,” she says to Geralt directly, “have started to heal over.” Gentle fingertips dance over new skin on his hip, and thigh, “I think if you wanted to soak a bit, it wouldn’t harm you much. Just, not too long. And the bard stays, to help you get out of the pool.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think maybe next chapter I'm going to post a link to a tumblr post, but the tldr is I got hit with some huge ER bills and other personal complications and my life is getting very difficult very quickly. My computer died and I had to replace it, I landed in the ER in August and got the bill a bit ago (yes asked for Itemized Bill), car needs new tires... I am... working 3 jobs and trying to pick up hours all over to pay for it all, so editing this fic has been pretty low priority for me. I'm really sorry. I was hoping to go down to 2 jobs this holiday season and that is not happening bc my living situation is going to be up in the air in about 6 months, too. :{   
> As always, I'm stressedspidergirlsfandomblog on tumblr, you're welcome to come say hi, chat me up etc.


	7. Geralt & Yennefer Go for a Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta. <3 Looks like we're about halfway thru what's written. Kind of a weird thought.

Geralt wakes up and shifts on the bed. He feels weak, still. Not like himself. He has no idea how many weeks he’s languished there. He tried to keep track, but with the potions, and the fact he’s been unconscious here and there, there’s no way to be sure. Restless, he paces around the room a little. It takes a few moments of dithering to decide on a course of action and he changes into warmer clothes. Mantle in hand, he leaves the room, unsurprised to see Yennefer and Ciri at the table, going over some kind of magic lesson together. Dandelion is nearby, working quietly on his own, and he doesn’t even look up when Geralt enters the room. 

“I’m going riding,” Geralt announces. Then stares at Yennefer when she looks up at him. She arches a brow and he takes a breath. “Come with me?” he entreats. 

“Ciri, I expect when I get back, you’ll know all these herbs.” 

“Yes, Yennefer.” 

“Don’t be pert.” 

“I’m not, I promise. Dandelion will help me if I need it.” 

“Indeed I shall, come over here, we’ll work together from the start, then,” he tells her pompously. 

“Is that how you lecture at the university?” Ciri asks him in dread. 

Geralt snorts, then catches himself. Yennefer picks up her cloak from the small pegs by the door and looks at him expectantly. He shakes himself and then opens the door for her, offering his arm as they walk to the stables. Surprised, she takes it, he’s never been much for showing fancy court manners unless she’s told him to. Not that she typically cares. If she wanted court manners, she would have taken a court mage as her lover, and kept them. Geralt doesn’t bore her, and his love isn’t fake or manipulations in disguise. When he’s with her, he gives her his whole heart. She’s never had that from anyone before, that unreserved love. From a witcher, no less. 

“I don’t know if you expect us to get far,” she tells him as they saddle the horses. “But if you haven’t noticed, winter is in full power here.” 

“Not in the woods,” he grunts, thumping Roach in the belly so she’ll let out the breath of air she sucked in. She deflates irritably and lips at his hair. Once he has the saddle secure, he walks her out of the stall. “It’s different out there, have you noticed?” 

“No, can’t say as I have. Ciri has been riding the horses, I have other things to concern myself with.” 

“There’s less snow today,” he shrugs as they step out. He offers her an assist on the mount up, and she lets him oblige her. Less fuss with her skirts. Not to mention he could use some kind of exercise. 

“Do you have a plan or is this just another whim of yours?” she asks idly, touching her necklace out of habit. 

“A whim, I suppose. I’d like some time alone with you. We should talk, but I need time, and a change of scenery. Does that disappoint you?” 

“No.”

“Will you be patient?” 

“In as much as I am able,” she promises. She knows what he’s asking. He’s brought her out to talk, but he has to work out the words, and the courage first. Whether he knows it or not, she knows what it is he needs to tell her. He’s been bleeding the thoughts around her since he remembered her. She knows that this is why he’s been avoiding her, her touch, any kind of comfort from her since that moment in the stables. The reason that every time he sees her and knows she’s looking at him he reeks of shame. 

“I will do my best not to test you, then,” he informs her dryly. He wishes things could be as they were. But parts are still missing, for him. He’s trying to remember the bard, trying to stare at him without being noticed. Find out what it is he’d locked away that would key all the memories, let everything fill back in. 

As someone who knows they can’t use much magic, he’s not so sure he didn’t will some kind of spell into existence. It’s just so hard to believe the man sharing a breakfast table with them wasn’t part of the posse of torturers he’d faced. It was the same livery. The same smells. He’d never gotten good looks at many faces, they’d been beating him so badly he’d had limited vision early on. Yennefer had tried to explain many times that yes, Dandelion had worn the clothing of a man who had hurt him, but no, Dandelion wasn’t that man. He’d never been there until the day they rescued him. 

He rides until he’s too tired to stay on his horse, which can’t be long. He’s barely been anywhere near Roach other than to brush her or sleep in her stall since he was healthy enough to walk out to her stable. 

The forest around the castle is oddly beautiful, and enchanted he’s sure. The world around them is lush, and green, the snow barely making it down to the ground cover. The scent of the loam and crushed moss rises up from under the horses as they walk, and birds and animals are heard, and seen, throughout. It’s almost a picture-perfect fantasy of a forest. Too cold for mosquitoes, thankfully, but some other insect life still hums away, flitting curiously about. 

After unhooking a foot from the stirrup, he dismounts clumsily, allowing Roach to keep them both walking a few meters more. He can hear the stream and knows she wants some water. There’s ice around the edges, but the center is clear and fresh. It’s easy enough to hang onto the stirrup and stand, muscles quivering as he adjusts to standing on his own again. He turns and holds out his other hand when he hears Yennefer step up behind him. 

“I brought food,” he offers her. 

“In a bit.” 

“I didn't think to bring a blanket. I didn’t expect to sit on the ground.” 

“There are rocks.” 

“Cold rocks.” 

“I have magic, Geralt. I think we’ll survive,” she squeezes his hand gently. It’s hard to resist kissing the back of his hand, but she knows if she does, he’ll pull away. He won’t let himself have that. Not now, not yet. She doesn’t much mind what order he decides to do things, but in his head, it has to be done right. 

“Perhaps the moss will be less damp than it looks,” he offers, trying to think of something comfortable. 

“I have some basic provisions in my saddle bags, I left the fabrics in case we had to leave in a hurry. I might have a spare cloak or a blanket we can rest on,” she tells him, seeing he’s upset with himself. “A blanket is a small comfort, and easy to overlook, Geralt. Neither one of us has always had all that we needed or wanted.” 

He nods, acknowledging her. Then helps her spread a wool blanket out over the moss. They settle, and she hardly dares breathe as he hesitantly puts an arm around her. Afraid to move and discourage him, but also afraid a lack of response will cause him to pull away, she leans into him gently. He’s still healing, the bruises on his face are lighter, and fading. She has a feeling his body is still sore and rebuilding his stamina will take time. At least his hair has started to grow in properly, hiding the new scars and discoloration. It won’t be as long as it was for years, but it’s enough she could run her fingers through it, if he’d allow it. To her delight, he’d shaved the beard off entirely. It had been horrible, unkempt and straggling after well over a month of indifference. She feels a well-trimmed beard, properly shaped, might be a nice addition if he chose it, but the mess he’d had reminded her more of a dying animal than a beard. 

Currently Geralt sports a few days of stubble that hardly hides the fading bruises or the new scars on his cheeks and lips. Yennefer presses her lips together rather than give in to the urge to kiss those new scars. As if her touch would do anything to change it. It occurs to her he doesn’t know how to break the silence, and if she’d like him to try, she has to give him a way in. 

“You bring out the softness in me,” she tells him quietly. “The things I thought I buried, or killed, long ago. When we’re angry, you can also bring out everything that Aretuza made me, everything my parents made me. But times like this, holding you, being held by you, this is all I could ask for.” 

He kisses the side of her head, curling an arm more possessively around her, and she allows herself to lean in more fully, relaxing her body into his. 

“I’m sorry, Yen.” 

“You’ve said. Over and over. And over and over, I forgive you.” 

“Except for that time in Vengerberg. That you won’t forgive.” 

“But we promised to move past it and not bring it up. If you would desperately like forgiveness, I can offer it. None of that seems to matter now as it is.” 

“No, I won’t bring it up again. I’m so-”

“Sorry, I know. I know, darling. I do.” She idly traces patterns with her fingertips on his leg, not in an attempt to arouse him, but to touch him and offer comfort. 

“They told me things, true things, while they cut into me.” 

She doesn’t answer. They did no such thing, but not allowing him to process this on his own will stop him from believing it. If she tells him that the torturers were liars, he’ll deny it. He won’t let himself accept it. As much as she’d like to shake him violently until he agreed to stop hating himself or thinking she and Dandelion and Ciri don’t truly love him, it won’t do her any good. 

“They reminded me why people don’t like witchers. Why we’re set apart from humanity. Why it didn’t matter how much they hurt me, or how often. I would heal. I’m not human,” his voice shakes slightly. He slowly gets more rigid as he stays with her. “Yennefer, I, I provide a service. A function. One that I don’t fulfill anymore. I was turned into a monster so I could kill monsters. And now, now I watch over Ciri, and that's all. I’m not killing monsters. My justification for existing, in terms of a societal contract, is gone. I shouldn’t. My purpose may not be served, but I haven’t had time, I can’t… she’s _everything._ And I find, I don’t…. I don’t always want this burden. I would like to…” his voice trails off miserably. “The monotony, the suffering, the hatred, all for a few coins. Yen,” his voice cracks. “I never asked for any of this.” Then he pauses, and she can feel him tilt his head. “Except Ciri. Not that I knew, I thought I was spitting in the face of destiny.” 

“Mmhm,” she agrees blandly, knowing if she properly answers him, he’ll stop. 

“They were right Yen, I don’t deserve… I should be on a slab. The...Vesemir, they knew I wasn’t normal, even for a witcher. The things they put me through, the changes,” his jaw trembles and he presses his lips together. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m so sick of the killing! I’m so sick of being told how much I love it when I don’t. There’s satisfaction to a job well done, there’s satisfaction to beating impossible odds, but Yennefer...it’s not as if I like killing people. I hate this war. I hate that they want Ciri. I just want to take her and keep her safe from all of it. 

“She’s been through so much, I failed her. Would a human have failed her like that, Yennefer? Or is my own failing because I’m a monster? Is it because I’m too horrible, too mutated, to do the right thing? It makes so much sense what they said, about my being a killing machine, fit for violence and nothing more. It’s why I can’t fault them for treating me like they did.” 

Yennefer freezes, afraid any wrong move on her part will stop the words at his lips before they have a chance to spill out. He needs this. Even if she'd rather not hear it, rather not be the one he worked this through with. But if the alternative was losing him forever, she could make a little sacrifice and hope that in this case, it would be enough.

“Hurting me however they pleased, beating me...I’d die bested by a monster, wouldn’t I? Regardless of the one to strike the killing blow, my end is going to be violent, isn't it? So what does it matter if it's slow or fast, human or monster? Isn’t that my life’s purpose? Fight and kill until I’m killed in turn? And every hunt, every monster, I might not walk away… I know that, every time. All those people I’ve hurt over the years, some human some not, the … Blaviken... Yennefer.” 

She pulls back, and he stiffens in pain. “No, Geralt,” she can’t keep silent anymore. Raising her body up so she’s kneeling, she pulls him into her embrace, holding him tight against her. “No.” She strokes the soft brush of milk-white hair and kisses the top of his head. He starts to sob silently, but the force of the pain he’s holding causes his entire body to rock with it. “Oh, Geralt. Never. None of that is true. None of that will ever be true.” She holds him, afraid her arms are all that’s stopping him from flying into pieces. 

He clings to her, helpless to do anything else. Some part of him is panicking because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Witchers are allowed to feel fear, it keeps you alive. Provided you don’t give in, but everything else has to be shut down, controlled, tucked away. And this is like a raging stream breaking over a dam and he feels like he’s drowning. She’s all he has, his only lifeline. 

“I don’t know how to make you believe me,” she tells him softly. “I don’t know how to make you hurt less,” but she knows that holding him gives him something. That her words give him something. 

“I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve love,” he tells her. “I failed you, I failed Ciri. I failed the bard, I can’t even remember him-” 

“No,” Yennefer says firmly, and perhaps louder than she needed to. The forest falls quiet for a few moments. “No, you claimed Ciri. You came for her, twice. And then when she was taken from us, you went to the ends of the continent, you survived torture for her. You did not fail her. The bard… is his own issue, and quite frankly usually a nuisance, but one you seem to enjoy. You haven’t failed him either.” She takes a few breaths, feeling his tears soak into her bodice.

“I don’t think anyone just _deserves_ love, Geralt. I don’t think that’s how it works.” Usually, when he’s asked her anything personal she’s asked him to stop asking. But she can feel how raw he is, how pained, how shamed and cowed, and knows she has to give him something of herself. “I loved my parents. They certainly didn’t deserve it.” Her voice is cold and hard, but her fingers in his hair are gentle and kind. “I don’t know how to help you. With this,” she shrugs helplessly. “No one held me when I cried,” she looks dispassionately at her wrists, bared slightly as her dress sleeves have come up. “No one much cared if I thought I mattered. Or if I was loved,” she kisses the side of his head. “Not until you.” 

“There-” 

“Oh, Geralt, Istredd wasn’t the same. His proposal, the way we were… that isn’t what we have. I could give up magic and book learning and decide to spin wool and you’d still love me. I could wear peasant’s clothes, and bind up my hair, and work my hands until they were rough, red, and cracked, and you…. For some insane reason you would still love me.” 

“They broke me,” he forces out, as if it’s the most important thing he could tell her. “They broke me and I let them!” 

“And yet, you didn’t give us up. To make the pain stop, you didn’t abandon us at all. You protected us,” she pulls back enough to cup his face and force him to meet her eyes. “Do you know how wrong you are? I know you have a great deal of practice in being wrong, Geralt, but that doesn’t stop me loving you.” She kisses him, heedless of the healing sores. “You are not broken!” she drops her hands to his shoulders and shakes him just a little. “They didn’t get what they wanted. They failed. You lasted weeks, most men break in what, hours? Minutes? You lasted a month. _We_ failed _you_. We couldn’t get to you for a month. I am so sorry we couldn’t find you sooner.” 

He looks at her, pupils blown as he drinks in her face. Touches her gently, and looks at her in surprise, as tears roll down her cheeks. “Yennefer…” 

“We failed you, Geralt. You kept Ciri safe and we let you down, you’re better than any of them. Better than all of us,” she kisses him again. “Geralt, nothing they told you was true,” she sometimes has half a mind to go beat Vesemir with a broom for whatever he put into Geralt’s head that made him so susceptible to believing the worst about himself. “Oh, once you remember Dandelion you’ll wish you’d chosen to tell all him this, he’s much better with words. He’d convince you, somehow, that he was telling the truth. Or he’d just speak so much you’d agree with him to make him be silent,” she frets, wiping tears gently off his face. “You deserve our love, you deserve our affection, sometimes you make a right ass of yourself, but that… you’ve taught me that a mistake doesn’t change everything. You, and the idiot bard, and our Ciri. Why can’t you let yourself believe the same applies to you? I know full well what people call me when my back is turned. It’s never stopped me from thinking I deserve more. Or better. Why does it stop you?” 

He shakes his head, pressing into her, and she holds him close. To Geralt, this is another humiliating exercise in futility. He’s not sure he’s expressed what he wanted to. He doesn’t currently feel any better, if anything his sides and head hurt more than they did, and it’s wearing him out. Why do people do this if it doesn’t make them feel better? 

“Oh, my darling,” Yennefer says softly. “It’s supposed to be a release of pain, but when you carry so much, what’s a few drops in the bucket?” she asks gently. “We’ll stay as long as you need,” not that there’s any chance of draining the bucket. He starts to sob again, but this time she can hear it, and it breaks her heart. It takes some doing, but she manages to get her skirts out of the way enough he can press in close to her without having to sit at her side. 

Eventually, he wears out. He has nothing left to give, and he hitches himself in even closer to her, resting his head on her shoulder. When he presses his forehead against her neck, he looks down at her dress a little. “You’ll have to wash it,” he tells her sadly, a little shudder running through him. 

“I suppose I will,” she looks down a bit, and takes his hand. It’s still gripping the front of her dress and he’s crushing the fabric. She also gets the feeling he’d very much like to let go and can’t make himself. It takes a little time, but she pulls his hand free, and brings it to her lips to kiss his palm. He’s still suffering from those shuddering aftershocks people get when they’ve cried too hard for too long. Yennefer laces their fingers together, allowing him to stay close to her, still dripping tears down the front of her dress. “It’s just a dress. It’s not as if I don’t have hundreds. Or didn’t. And won’t have plenty again. Not that this one won’t clean. It’s just tears.” And snot, but she doesn’t much feel that needs to be added. “You’re worth far more to me than some fabric.”

He shifts again, stretching his leg out to the side, and she sighs. “Still hurting you?” 

“I don’t much think it’s going to stop.” 

“I will make it stop,” she tells him firmly. “I had hoped some of the healing we did, and some of the rest you’d had…. I’m sorry it didn’t improve.” 

“Not much has, has it?” 

“Not right now, no. Being tortured didn't help.” 

“It was somewhat scientific. For progress. And understanding of the mutations. They had hoped maybe, to vivisect me and find out how to recreate some of the trials. Make their own soldiers with mutations like mine. Loyal to the emperor and willing to fight to the death.” 

“Well, then it’s much better they didn’t get that far. Also, since I don’t know if you recall, or if we told you, but I did kill them all.” 

“What?”

“When we rescued you, I collapsed the castle into something so small it’s as if it never existed. Anyone inside is dead. I thought perhaps, I should have checked the cells. In case someone didn’t deserve to die. But when we saw what they’d done to you… if anyone was much worse off, well. It was perhaps a kindness.” 

He hiccups slightly, staring at her. He's aware of how much power that takes. "By yourself?" He asks, stunned. 

"I lost my temper when I saw you. I can't be held accountable for what I do when I've lost my temper. You know that. And Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"No reason is a good reason for you to have been hurt. Nothing they told you was justifiable. Torturing someone, firstly, is a waste. People will say anything to make it stop. We both know that. So if you can't believe you personally didn't do anything, then just know there's no point to it. Petty vindictiveness and a love of hurting others. And while there are some people, I very much intend to beat to death with my bare hands…. Torture isn't an honorable thing. And wanting to kill someone isn't the same thing as torturing them. Pretending that you want answers …. If you're going to torture someone one should just admit they like causing pain and there's nothing else. Do you understand?" 

"I understand." 

"You know if I get my hands on anyone orchestrating this, killing them slowly will bring me satisfaction. But I won't stupidly pretend it will give me answers." 

“I understand.” 

“But you don’t agree?” 

“Ask me when that day comes,” his breathing hitches. 

“Are you frightened, right now?” 

“I think I’m always frightened, now. Some part of me is always afraid,” he struggles not to start sobbing again. The shame is far worse than any of the other things he’s feeling. “Afraid Ciri will get captured, afraid you’ll leave once she’s gone… afraid not for myself, do you understand?” 

“I understand.” 

“It’s not that I’m brave. I would very much prefer not to have more holes poked in my hide,” he tells her. “I just can’t bear the thought...I’ve never had anything to lose before. Not like this. I always knew you could walk out of my life at any moment...there were never any promises we made. No lies we told. If our paths diverged, they diverged. If I ceased to amuse you, you could send me to the other end of the continent with no memory of you at all, and I’d never know.”

“I told you that when I did, and how I did to prove a very different point, Geralt.” Yen looks at him. “You didn’t understand why I would be with you when I had other options. If our paths diverged, they diverge, but for now, you have nothing to fear of me leaving.” 

“Ciri-”

“I love Ciri. She’s like a daughter to me. She is not the reason I’m with you. I could not be in this forest with you. I could be with her. I could amuse myself with the bard if it was just about a warm body.” She kisses him gently, not sure how to convince him of anything she’s saying. “I’m here with you. I intend to stay. For the foreseeable future at the very least. We both live a very long life, Geralt, I can’t promise you forever. But I can promise you now.” 

He kisses her in response. It wouldn't matter much what her answer was. He loved her, when all was said and done. Whether she stayed or left, he loved her. 

She gently cups his cheek and uses her thumb to wipe away tears. He brings their foreheads together gently, letting his eyes close. 

“I can’t make it stop, Yen,” he tells her with an odd laugh. “I can’t make the damn tears stop.” 

“You don’t have to. They’ll stop on their own. No sense in forcing it. It just makes it worse.” 

He reaches out and takes her hand, tipping the palm up. “You cut through the ligaments.” 

“I did.” 

“Magic healed you.” 

“It did.” 

“Did…” his breathing hitches and he has to stop and start again. “Did the magic help, on the inside? Knowing they went through all of that, just to heal you? Not letting you die?” 

“I was property. They wanted a return on their investment.” She watches dispassionately as he traces the scars with his thumb, his larger hands dwarfing hers. 

“I didn’t get the feeling that’s how they felt.” 

“Well, not now certainly. I made good on their investment and then decided to go my own way. And besides, after Sodden…” 

He kisses her hands, holding them against his cheeks for a moment before letting them drop to his lap. He loosens his hold, as if expecting her to pull away. She doesn’t. “Do you ever wish…?” 

“Don’t ask me that.” 

“I won’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t ask it.” 

He nods, and leans into her again, seeking closeness. She pulls her hands free and slides her arms around his shoulders. Yennefer sits with him, her head on his shoulder, his on hers, and listens to the forest around them while he cries. She’s fairly certain this is the end of it. This time it seems healing, rather than destructive. His thoughts are calmer, somehow, even if he’s still distressed. It’s a release now, not the breaking of floodgates. She tucks his head under her chin and keeps him close. She loved him, when all was said and done. 

When he’s done, he snuffles miserably. “I’m-” 

“Don’t say it.” 

“Alright. I won’t.” 

She looks around them, watches the horses eye them while happily nibbling on fresh grass, and notices the sun has moved in the sky. They’ve been gone long enough it’s past high noon. She says nothing about it. She’d promised him all the time he needed. 

“Would you like to eat?” he asks, sounding unsure. 

“We could. I think there’s enough ambient magic in this forest I could risk a small spell to warm the air a bit.” He’s been shivering off and on for quite some time. And while she knows it’s emotional, not physical, heat might be soothing. If nothing else it should help the front of her dress dry faster. 

When he doesn’t answer, she ignores it. It’s easy enough to let him slowly pull away and stand up. His whole body seems to shake and she knows he’s exhausted. Roach ambles a few steps closer and he clings to first her mane and then her saddle as he rummages through the bag he’d brought, cursing before detaching it and bringing it back over. He’s too worn out to stand and go through it. He settles heavily next to the sorceress, pulling out some food wrapped in fabric. 

He’s managed to bring some hard cheese, dried meat, and then some pastries. 

“What, no soup?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

He looks at her in confusion before realizing she’s pulling his leg and shaking his head at her. She grins and kisses his cheek. 

“You’re lucky you’re handsome and a good fuck, because sometimes I worry about you, all those knocks to the head,” Yennefer kisses his temple. And smiles when he turns his head to catch her lips and they just kiss for a few moments. He nuzzles her a bit, before they pull away and divide up the food. He seems calmer, and willing to let her touch him again. She can’t help but feel like a weight has been taken off of her, like something had been crushing her and she hadn’t even known. 

They eat slowly, teasing each other some, and relaxing back into each other. 

“Things will be different now, won’t they?” he asks her, feeling a little lost. 

“They’re different all the time. That’s just life.” She leans forward and takes a bite of his pastry. “Entropy,” she tells him after she chews and swallows. “It’s how it goes.” 

“Yen,” he says reproachfully. 

“Yes, things will be different.” 

“Stop eating my food,” he protests, pulling away from her. She laughs, and he can’t help but grin. He sets the pastry down back on the cloth and catches her by the cheek, pulling her in to kiss her, food forgotten. She laughs again, and obliges him, pushing their repast away so that they won’t roll in it. 

He kisses her, trying to press the love he’s feeling into her skin. As if it could somehow work that way, simply because he wanted it to. She kisses him back, running her hands over his body, mindful of his hurts. Wishing her touch could wash them away. 

Too tired to do all that he wants, he’s pleasantly surprised when Yennefer pushes him down onto the blanket, slipping a leg over his hips so she can straddle him. She leans in and he holds himself up just a bit, eager for her to keep kissing him.

She does, she covers him with her love and affection, pressing their bodies together to try and remind him that he is worthy. He is loved, he is human, he isn’t a monster. He deserves this kind of gentleness and affection; he deserves to feel good again after what he’d been through. He deserves safety, and intimacy, and love. 

For his part, he tries to show how thankful he is that she is willing to touch him. She tries to remind him with kisses and gentle touch he doesn’t have to be. She loves him, when all is said and done. 

After, she curls up at his side, kissing him all over the face simply because she enjoys the face he makes when she does. “At least that’s one area you won’t need any practice to regain your stamina or expertise,” she tells him in a pleased tone. 

With a grunt, Geralt scrunches his nose at her when she kisses his forehead again. It’s done nothing to stop her, and he’s glad she wasn’t wearing lipstick. One time, to his chagrin, she had been, and it had taken several people laughing at him before he’d figured out why. Not that she’d done it to shame or mock him, he knows full well she’d probably thought nothing of it. Or even noticed. He reaches out to lightly grip her chin, urging her to kiss him on the mouth. And so, they lay there for a while in each other’s arms, content. 

They loved each other, when all was said and done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep me company at work? Even if it's just telling me about your day and not the fic? This week is going to be extremely rough.


	8. An Unpleasant Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta.  
> Thanks to those of you who took the time to stop and comment. <3 You made my week much better. It was not an easy one, and it could have been worse. 
> 
> TW: They finally figures out all of the things Geralt has been through.

Ciri crawls out of the bed, shifting silently away from Geralt. He’s humming in his sleep, but she doesn’t recognize the tune. He and Yennefer had come back, bathed, and then gone back to her rooms for a bit. Yennefer had bandaged him up and they had simply sat together until he needed to be alone. He’d gone to his own bed, exhausted but less miserable. Ciri had noted the change in demeanor when he’d come back. After she finished her studies for the day she crawled into bed with him. 

On silent feet, she disappears and slips into the bard’s room. “Are you awake?” 

“Yes. Why are you awake? Why aren’t you with Geralt? Is he alone?” 

“He’ll be fine, he’s humming in his sleep.” 

“He’s what?” Dandelion turns around, he’d been slumped at the writing desk, staring at a blank page resentfully when she’d come in. He could see why she’d thought he was asleep. At Oxenfurt, he’d fallen asleep many a time at his desk in almost the same position. 

“I don’t know the tune. Play your lute, please.” 

“He’s asleep.” 

“For me, play for me. Maybe you’ll play it, and I’ll know what it is and then you can play it when he’ll hear.” Ciri knows the music will wake Geralt. What she doesn’t know is if he’ll decide to investigate or not. 

“Fine, but I am not going to play all night until we find the song. We might never find it. But I’ll play until you’re ready to go back to bed.” 

“Thank you,” she tells him, eyes bright in the candlelight. She has a feeling Geralt woke shortly after she left. Or if he didn’t, nightmares would get him later. He’d wake. She just had to keep the bard playing long enough, and hope that Geralt would be curious. Hope if nothing else he’d come check on her. He could follow her scent. He’s done it before, no reason he can’t do it again. If he’s really that afraid of the bard, he shouldn’t want her alone with him. 

When he gets out the lute, he settles on the floor, against the foot of the bed. She settles in front of him, clutching her night robe to her shoulders. “Well, do you have any idea what type of tune he was humming?” 

“It didn’t sound sad?” she offers, she just needs him to play. It has to work. 

“Fine, I’ll do my best,” he tells her, almost annoyed. He plays, he plays for what feels like hours, singing and only stopping to sip water. It soothes him, he realizes he hadn’t played since they got Geralt back. He’d gotten out his lute, he’d thought about it, and then he hadn’t. 

“I don’t think we’ve found it,” he tells her, and she looks at him. 

“You can’t stop now,” she tells him, fairly sure she’d heard the creak of a door across the hall. “Please, not yet. A few more. Please.” 

“Fine, I can’t say no to you, can I?” he asks, and resumes his playing. His fingertips hurt, he hasn’t played in a while, and even with his callouses, he’s sure it’s been far longer than he’s ever played without taking a break. His throat is starting to hurt a little, for all he’s been singing softly. 

Finally, out of ideas of what will please her, he starts perhaps one of his most famous songs, “When a humble bard…” and almost stops when his door opens slightly and a figure in dark clothes slips into the room. If not for the reflective eyes he might have screamed. Only witchers have those. Ciri kicks him and he resumes playing. Licking his lips and trying to remember where in the song he’d been. Geralt doesn’t slip away from the door, he stays there, back pressed against it. 

By the end of the song, however, he’d come closer, kneeling down next to Ciri to listen. When the final note dies away, he tilts his head, “Dandelion?” he asks softly, voice cracking. 

Ciri smiles once at the bard and disappears from the room. Her purpose achieved. 

Dandelion barely has time to put his lute on the bed behind him before the witcher is in his arms, clinging to him. “Oof,” he complains, not having expected to have a large man suddenly slam into him. 

“Fuck,” Geralt pulls away immediately, “Dandelion, I…” he stares when the bard holds his arms open again. 

“Just, gentler this time, alright?” Dandelion asks and smiles when Geralt slides into his embrace much more carefully than before. He tries not to laugh a bit as Geralt nuzzles him, ‘marking’ him all over. The bard ignores Geralt as he continues to snuggle up, just waiting for him to settle. He can feel dampness here and there, and since the ceiling isn’t leaking, he knows Geralt is crying. 

The witcher, for his part, is breathing in the scent of his partner all over again, refamiliarizing himself with the various soaps and lotions and oils all used by the bard. Erasing any hint in his memory of the way Dandelion had smelled in the other man’s uniform. Because of course Dandelion had never been part of the group of Nilfgaardian torturers. He rubs his face over the vee of Dandelion’s chemise, wanting his partner’s scent on him. Wanting his scent all over the bard. Not that anyone would know, anyone but him, at least. He doesn’t know at what point his eyes started watering, he’s hardly aware of it. 

“Dandelion,” he mumbles into the bard’s shirt, settling. He isn’t sure at what point it happens, but he’s started crying into the other man’s shirt, helpless to stop. 

“Oh, love, it’s alright,” Dandelion tells him softly. He holds Geralt close. “It’s fine, it’s alright,” he can’t imagine that this isn’t horribly painful for the battered witcher. “Oh, love, try and breathe,” gently runs his hand up and down Geralt’s arm, afraid to touch his back. “Don’t tear stitches.” He’s unsurprised to find that he’s crying, too. 

Geralt pulls himself together first, sitting up and pulling his face out of Dandelion’s shirt to kiss him. It’s messy, and they bump heads, and click teeth and have to stop, and start again, going slower. 

“I...I had to, you… you understand, right?” Geralt pulls away to ask, looking once at the guttering candle. 

“Yennefer might have said something. I understand, maybe not how you did it, but why.” 

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to hurt you. If I’d thought I’d have lived, I don’t know, I don’t know,” he whispers. “I was trying to force them to kill me.” 

“And so you forgot anyone who you’ve ever loved? And you forgot what it was to be loved...that must have been agonizing,” the bard gently strokes the soft white brush of hair. “You were so different when we first met.” His voice is a little hoarse, and a look at the window tells him he’d played till almost dawn. His fingertips burn and ache, and he thinks he’s blistered them or torn the callouses. There’s no need to check, just yet. Not to mention he’d seen what they’d done to the witcher’s hands, they’re still bandaged in places. He has nothing to complain about. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Geralt whispers. 

“Oh, I’m just happy you remember me,” the bard tells him. “These are tears of joy I have you back. I think yours are stress,” he tries to laugh or tease. 

“I didn’t want to forget any of you.” 

“I know, Geralt, we don’t blame you. Please, it’s alright.” He gently takes one of Geralt’s hands in his, mindful of the still healing breaks and cuts. He kisses the witcher’s cheek gently. 

When the witcher curls back up against him, he eases his arms in a loose circle over Geralt’s shoulders. He’s not sure what to do, but he wishes the man would hold still because if he doesn’t stop shifting then he is going to make things awkward for both of them.

“I love you very much, but if you’re going to wriggle around in my lap, I can’t be held responsible for my cock,” he tells Geralt gently. “You’re welcome to ignore it, but if it’s going to distress you, I’d rather give you warning.” 

The witcher freezes, and Dandelion knows he might have ruined the evening, but if he hadn’t said anything, the evening would have still been ruined. Morning, he realizes. He’s exhausted. 

“Here, let’s get into the bed, keep your clothes on,” he says, “And we’ll get comfortable. That’s all, no more than what we were just doing. You can rest your head on my chest and fidget as much as you like.” 

Geralt hesitantly gets up, and the discomfort in his movements isn’t entirely from pain. He watches as Dandelion carefully packs his lute away and blows out the candle. The bard closes the curtains, not wanting the sun to wake them. 

“If you want me to-”

“No, I do not,” Dandelion cuts him off. “I absolutely do not. Not right now. Not like this.” 

“But I could.” 

“I know, and I don’t want to. If you want to, later, we can talk about it, but I don’t right now. Not at all.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I am very sure,” Dandelion tells him. “Although I can’t see well in the dark, can you keep talking or something or tell me if I’m about to walk into furniture.” 

“Here,” Geralt hadn’t done much more than stay in place by the foot of the bed. He gently takes the bard’s hand and guides him to the side of the bed. 

“That works, thank you.” 

“Did you intend to echolocate like a bat?” Geralt asks, amused.

“I might not have your superior senses, but I can follow the sound of a voice. And I’d have to be the one talking for it to be echolocation. You know that.” 

Geralt watches Dandelion crawl into the bed, fussing with the covers until he has them pulled back enough that he can get under them properly. 

“It’s right chilly, could you hurry up?” Dandelion asks, and then smiles when he feels Geralt slip in beside him. “Ah, you’re chilled, too,” he notices and hears the familiar ‘hmm’ as the witcher tries to answer him but can’t think of anything to say. “Well get in close then, here, get warm, we’ll warm up together. There, that’s better. Oh, a bit lower please, just a bit, and to the side, there.” Geralt’s head no longer directly on top of the bruise he’d left a day or so ago, Dandelion is much more comfortable. He rests a hand gently on the side of Geralt’s head. Yennefer had spent most of her energies healing the witcher’s skull and patching together his skin. His head is relatively safe to touch, especially compared to the rest of him. They fall into a comfortable enough sleep, for all Geralt doesn’t manage to sleep long. 

He wakes them both with his nightmares and manages to get out of the bed and find the chamber pot before heaving up his dinner. There’s enough light peeking under the curtains that Dandelion is able to safely get out of bed and go to his lover’s side.

“It’s alright, it’s over, it’s over,” he promises, for all Geralt jerks away from him in terror, initially. “It’s me, it’s just me, Geralt. It’s alright,” he says soothingly. “Oh, that must hurt something fierce, I’m so sorry,” he strokes Geralt’s arm again gently. He gets up and comes back with a cup of water, so the other man can swish his mouth out a bit. “I’ve got mint, too, let me find it,” he says, leaving Geralt to put himself to rights. He’d been too panicked to find comfort actually helpful. 

Once he’s found the mint leaves, he sits down across from Geralt, and offers them up. He won’t crowd him, he’d forgotten how much that doesn’t always help. When Geralt takes them with a grateful glance, he knows he’s done right not to try and force closeness. 

“What did you dream about?” he asks quietly. 

“They were going to cut off my…” he glances up. “They almost removed the part of me people seem to like best.” 

“Your eyes?” Dandelion offers flirtatiously. Simply trying to lighten the mood just a bit. 

“No, that’s only you and Yennefer, it seems. Some find them fascinating, but I wouldn’t say they like them.” 

“Well good to know them cracking your head open didn’t do a damn thing to change you,” he shrugs. 

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt tells him, chewing the mint. 

“You only got a few hours sleep, would you like to come back to bed?” 

“I can go, if you need to sleep.” 

“No, I’m here for you,” Dandelion assures him. “Better here with me than alone. And I truly don’t mind. It’s not as if we have anywhere to go. We seem to be safe here.” He pats the covers, having gotten back into the bed. “Come back to me, love.” 

As Geralt resettles cautiously into the bed, he snuffles a little, pressing his face into Dandelion’s chest. The hair’s never bothered him, although he had had several laughs when the bard had shaved once. Some countess hadn’t liked it. Geralt grins to himself, snuggling up and putting an arm around Dandelion’s middle. 

“What? I can feel you smile, what is it?” 

“Do you remember when you shaved?” Geralt chuckles. 

“Oh, you hated that didn’t you? And I didn’t even know why, I thought you were just being an ass. Well, you were being an ass. But as much time as you spend sticking your face in it, I’ve come to realize you were being an ass because you liked it. And missed it.” 

“You looked like a child,” Geralt grouses. 

“She liked it, and she was paying good money for my company and then paying you handsomely for your witcherly duties. We lived quite comfortably for a while.” 

“Until you fucked her maid,” the witcher points out. 

“I did, I did indeed.” 

“How long until I find you in bed with someone else?” Geralt asks softly, tracing the ‘v’ of Dandelion’s chemise. 

“You won’t.” 

“You can’t hide it from me.” 

“That’s not what I mean, Geralt. I mean you won’t. I’ve wanted to be with you, as more than a travelling companion, for years. I have no intention of cocking that all up. I remember how drunk you were and how hurt you were.” 

“You’ve known sleeping with people who weren’t your partners hurt them, why am I special?” 

“I fell out of love with them, Geralt. Or I was never as in love as I’d hoped. I did things that were regrettable. I admit. And I am not perfect. But, Geralt I’m yours. I’ve been yours since you told me to stay with you. And I’ll be yours until the end of my life. And no one else’s. Well, perhaps partially Yennefer’s, but yours. Until you don’t want me, or I breathe my last. I promise you. Geralt, I promise you that much. And while we’re on a sort of sordid subject, your best feature is not your cock. It’s a good feature of yours, and I’m glad they didn’t remove it, but there are plenty of other things I love about you. For one, I’m very fond of your lips,” Dandelion kisses him gently, tipping his chin up. “I like your muscles, those are nice, too,” he adds, stroking Geralt’s arm. “What else? Oh yes, I’m very fond of your jaw,” he shifts some so he can kiss just along the line of it. “Hm, and your hair? Which is growing back nicely. It’s so soft. 

“And then, your hands, they’re very clever. And very strong, and when you use them they’re so gentle and kind.” He kisses Geralt’s palms, mindful of the splints on one hand, and the bandaging over both. “I love when I’m just holding them, or watching you sharpen swords, I don’t need it to be more.” He kisses the bridge of Geralt’s nose gently and kisses his lips again. “I love everything about you. Your bad temper, your dark moods, the way you smile, the way you look when the moonlight shines on your skin, your jokes -even when they’re coarse, the way you love Ciri with your whole being, the way you want to save everyone, your odd fascination with Yennefer…” 

“It’s not so very odd, she’s beautiful.” 

“And a right bitch sometimes.” 

“You don’t really believe that anymore.” 

“No, I don’t, but it always brings out the gallant in you when I say things like that. Just like we both know her beauty isn’t the only reason you’re fond of her. You try and be coarse, and you can’t even manage that, not when it’s about her. That’s another wonderful thing about you, too. There are so many.”

“Are there perhaps other parts of me you like?” he asks wistfully. 

Dandelion parses his real meaning, and smiles. “There’s your chest,” he says, pressing gentle kisses down the line of Geralt’s torso. “Your hips,” he grins, not trying to do anything more than just kiss him. He knows, somewhere deep down, that’s all the witcher wants. Just kisses. “Your legs are quite nice,” he adds, kissing down to Geralt’s knees. He kisses his way back up, mumbling sweet nothings the whole way until he makes it back to Geralt’s mouth. He’s doesn’t do much more than lightly press his lips against the other man’s, mouth closed. He knows that more would cheapen the moment. He can’t help but smile when Geralt slips his arms around him, wanting to be close. “Should I lie back down?” he asks quietly, “So you can go back to sleep?” 

“Do we have to stop?” Geralt asks quietly. 

“No, of course not, I just don’t want you wearing yourself out, or hurting yourself.” Dandelion settles himself in the bed and holds out an arm, allowing Geralt to curl up at his side instead of on his chest. “I’ll kiss you as long as you want.” 

“If you’re too tired…” 

“No, not for this,” he leans closer and lightly presses his forehead to Geralt’s for a moment, before kissing him again. 

**

“Where’s Geralt?” Yennefer asks Ciri, surprised to see the girl breakfasting at the table. 

The girl smiles at her, the scar on her cheek stretching her lips garishly. Love makes her beautiful all the same. “He’s with Dandelion.” 

“When did he go in there?” 

“A few hours before dawn.” 

“It’s past noon.” 

Ciri just smiles again. 

“What did you do to get them in a room together?” 

“I asked Dandelion to play his lute.” 

“What?” Yennefer asks, surprised. “I hardly…” her face softens. “A song brought it all back,” she breathes. “One of the songs Dandelion wrote about him?” 

“The first.” 

“Oh Lilit help us, we’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Ciri giggles. “At least he knows us all know. Things will be alright now.” 

“They will. Yes.” 

When Ciri pokes her head in to see if they want lunch, she’s initially mortified, thinking she’s walked in on something. Then she realizes neither one of them is moving. Geralt is on top of Dandelion, to be sure, but he’s asleep. With his shirt on, at the least. Dandelion is snoring softly, arms around the witcher’s shoulders. It doesn’t look like they got up to anything other than sleeping. Almost disappointed, at least they’re together, again. She leaves the tray of food by the door and freezes when she sees Geralt’s eye open halfway, the iris reflecting gold in the early afternoon light. He registers her, sighs deeply and goes back to sleep, eye closing. 

She exits in a hurry, glad she hadn’t ruined anything. Or walked in on them…getting reacquainted. That would have been mortifying. “They’re asleep,” she tells Yennefer. 

“Probably wore each other out f-... talking.” 

“They were both fully clothed, Mama. I don’t think much of that happened.” She can’t help but feel minorly annoyed. She’d hoped they would do more than just talk. Perhaps they had and had chosen to put clothes back on. Then she wonders if there’s something wrong with the fact she’s trying to get her surrogate parents to have sex. “Do you think they’re alright?” 

“The fact that the bard might have passed on a good fuck concerns me.” But if Geralt hadn’t felt up to it, he hadn’t felt up to it. He’d been very odd about several things since… not that she blames him. All of it’s quite fair. Maybe she shouldn’t have left them alone. Shaking her head, “So, what’s willow bark used for?” 

“Yennefer…” 

“What is willow bark used for?” 

“As an herb, it can be used in teas to reduce fever. Some claim it also reduces pain,” the girl dutifully recites, realizing she won’t get anywhere if she keeps pushing about the others. 

**

Geralt wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable. At least until he notices something pressing into his stomach. He freezes, muscles rigid. No, it’s Dandelion. It’s safe to be with Dandelion. Dandelion made him promise not to have sex if he hadn’t wanted to. And he doesn’t want to. He won’t have to. 

“What’s wrong?” Dandelion asks sleepily, not even bothering to open his eyes yet. 

“Nothing,” Geralt groans, shifting onto his side by the bard. 

“Something’s got you upset. I know what it means when you get all frozen like that.” 

“It’s nothing,” Geralt repeats. 

“No, clearly it isn’t.” Dandelion sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He strokes Geralt’s hair gently. “I wish you didn’t feel like you had to lie so much. Or that we’re as afraid of dealing with your feelings as you are.” 

“Please,” the witcher whispers. 

“We can postpone it, but will you at least tell me what triggered it?” 

“I’m not ready to be wanted,” he mumbles uncomfortably. He has no idea why he feels shy talking about these things with Dandelion. He’s not shy with anyone else. It’s just different. Somehow. 

“I wake up like that sometimes, it just happens. I wasn’t even dreaming of anything,” Dandelion reassures him. “There’s no wanting of that kind, right now. Except wanting to hold you, is that acceptable or would you like that to not happen?” The words on their own seem harsh, but the tone is quiet, and gentle. 

In response, Geralt sets his head carefully against Dandelion’s collarbone, and huffs in contentment when the bard kisses him and tucks his head under his chin. He’s hesitant to curl up comfortably. He doesn’t want to encourage anything. 

“I would never force you, Geralt. I promise you. I don’t want to bed you if you don’t want me to. Nothing would make me feel worse.” He lets his eyes close, and gently strokes Geralt’s arm until he falls asleep. Geralt stays awake a few moments longer, listening to the steady thumping of his lover’s heart. 

When he wakes up next, he inches his hips away from Dandelion’s leg. He hadn’t meant to, he didn’t want to. Some part of him wants to, but not right now. There’s a fear there he never had before. Not with Dandelion and he feels sick inside. He’d felt it with Yennefer, too, at first. And then later it had been less there. He’d felt fine with her, and they’d made love. And he wants to get there with the bard, but his whole body tenses up thinking about having someone inside him. Even though they had reversed positions or stuck to things that didn't require penetration before, it doesn’t occur to him that’s still on the table. 

“Will you please tell me why you think I’m going to hurt you?” 

“I don’t.” 

“I promise, your odd reluctance is the most unappealing thing I’ve ever faced. You were more alluring to me covered in kikimora guts than you are now. Not that I don’t still love you, it’s just that the idea you could be this afraid of me is making my balls climb up inside my stomach. If my cock could shrink more, it’d disappear. You’re safe from me.” 

“If you want-” 

“No! No, I damn well don’t want! Stop!” Dandelion sits up and pulls away some, not sure what to do. This isn’t the first time they’ve had a miscommunication about their bodies. “Enough of this, what the fuck happened to you?” When Geralt tries to look away Dandelion grips his chin and forces him to make eye contact. “What. Happened.” 

“I was tortured.” 

“Before that. You’ve been fuzzy on what all you’ve been through before you were tortured.” 

“Who says that was the first time?” Geralt quips. 

“My god, Geralt, I thought I knew where most of these old scars came from.” He lightly touches the witcher’s shoulder where he knows teeth marks rest. “I thought I knew almost all of them. A few you didn’t talk about…” 

Geralt looks away, rather than deal with whatever the bard is pushing. “I thought we put this to bed.” 

“Obviously not!” Dandelion flaps his hands in frustration. “You can’t move past it if you’re too afraid to even talk about it!” 

“I’m not afraid to talk about, I’m afraid of what you’ll do when you hear about it!” he bursts out, angry. Then freezes, and deeply wishes he had kept his mouth shut. _“Fuck.”_

“Do you think I’ll hurt you, or shame you? Is that it?” 

“No, you’ll do something much worse,” Geralt curls his lip in disgust. “You’ll do that thing you do where you make a big fuss out of nothing and make me regret ever telling you.” He rubs at his forehead and then his temples. “You push and push and push at me, and then promise you won’t do things like that, and then you promise you’ll respect what I ask, and you never do! Not about things like this! Why not?!” 

“Because you’re afraid of me! If you weren’t flinching away like I was going to bloody well r-oh my god Geralt. That’s what they did. That’s what they did to you, isn’t it? And that’s what you wouldn’t tell me those months ago on the road. It wasn’t the first time.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you pity me.” 

“This isn’t pity.” 

“It wasn’t like that, what you’re thinking about, it wasn’t like that. I chose certain things, it wasn’t that. I never said no.” 

“You...You never, but then the guards, I- no wonder. No wonder you don’t want to. I mean I don’t want you to want to, not if you don’t, I just. Melitele’s tits…” 

“Please don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what, Geralt? Because I don’t pity you. I am feeling horrified, but not _at_ you. _For_ you, yes, and I know that upsets you, too. And I can see why you didn’t want to tell me. I can see why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone. But that doesn’t mean we could have continued on with me not knowing...ye gods, what if I’d tried to push something and you weren’t ready…? What if you just didn’t say no? No, I had to know this. Whether you like that or not, for us to continue in any way, I had to know this. How did… does Yennefer know?” 

“I don’t know,” Geralt tells him honestly enough. She’s always stopped from doing something when he’d felt uncomfortable, but he’s not sure if she’d know why he hadn’t liked something. 

“Do you know that this is awful? Do you understand that? Have you let yourself process that at all?” He reaches out to cup Geralt’s cheek and the witcher flinches back. Then Geralt eases his face into the warm palm still waiting. 

“Let it go, bard, things happen.”

“Geralt, these kinds of things do not just happen.”

“Sometimes these kinds of things are necessary. My choices are my choices. I try not to dwell. I make good ones, I make bad ones. Just like anyone else.” He looks at the window, pulling away from the bard. “I need to eat.” 

“Yes, you do. You’re still far too thin. Do you want to go alone?” Dandelion chooses to ignore the first part, utterly at a loss.

“Hm? No. You should eat, too. Unless you’re planning on sleeping?” 

“No, no, I imagine I won’t sleep for hours yet. Let’s go find some lunch.” 

They walk in silence, but when Geralt reaches his fingertips out to touch the back of the bard’s hand, he laces his fingers into Geralt’s. 

Ciri smiles at them when they walk into the hall, pleased to see their fingers interlocked. Yennefer looks at her, and then looks up at the other two. 

“Ciri, will you please check the stables for me? Walk my horse a bit, perhaps Kelpie, too.” 

“You don’t always have to send me away,” she complains. 

“Go kiss Geralt on the cheek and take half an hour.” 

“I hate this. All those secrets you keep from me.” 

“Perhaps we intend to fuck, and just don’t want you to see it,” Yennefer suggests idly, brushing some of her hair behind her ear. 

“I hope not, Dandelion looks like shit.” 

“I can hear you! Go on, go be a stable girl you little hellion!” 

She flounces over, kisses Geralt on the cheek, pleased when he kisses her forehead, and grabs up her cloak before leaving the room. 

Half wishing Ciri was staying, because it would mean the unpleasant conversations were over for the day, he sighs. However, there is a bit of an out, seeing as Yennefer hates when people speak with their mouths full. Or make much noise while chewing. They came out to eat, so he’ll eat. There’s some kind of sliced poultry, fresh bread, and cheeses, hard and soft. Not bothered much by manners, and unable to find a plate as it is, he settles at the table with a soft groan and starts eating. 

Yennefer glances at him, once, as he lifts up a slice of meat and rolls it with cheese inside before eating most of it in one bite. Bemused, she looks over at Dandelion who has lifted up a slice of bread and is busy turning it into little crumbs. He’s clearly too worked up to eat. “The grapes are fresh,” she pushes the platter towards the witcher. He pulls a few off their stems and stuffs those into his mouth along with a bite of bread spread with soft cheese. Let him stuff himself. He hasn’t been eating well in weeks. Months, at this point. If he gets sick, he gets sick, it’s his choice. 

Pleasantly surprised at the quality of the food, he’s content to spread soft cheese across fire-warmed bread, and to add the slices of meat rolled with hard cheese to his meal. It feels good to eat until he’s full. He hasn’t been doing enough of that. The longer he can keep eating, the longer he can delay talking and perhaps, perhaps Ciri will be done with the horses by then and he can avoid this unpleasant conversation entirely. He glances up and feels his stomach sink when he notes Yennefer and Dandelion making eye contact and not speaking. Damned mind reading. The bard is letting her in. Half wondering if he can get the rest of the food he wants and carry it in his hands to his room and barricade himself in before they notice, he knows Yennefer can just use magic. 

“That explains rather a lot,” Yennefer says, finally, breaking the silence. Geralt swallows a grape whole on accident. He gags a second and recovers with an overlarge gulp of wine. “That’s why you changed, after a few decades of us fucking off and on, you got… antsy about some things you’d never minded before.” She twirls her hair around a finger pensively. “You had new scars, and new nightmares, and they aren’t so different than any of the others you have, so I didn’t pry. Plus, you and I, with our lifespans, what’s a few bad dreams? It all fades eventually.” She leans forward, cupping her chin with her hand. “But I see some of it is more than just bad dreams for you, isn’t it?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be 100% clear, because I've looked at this so many times I'm not sure it makes sense anymore, Yennefer knew when she was patching him up what had happened most recently, what she didn't realize was that it wasn't the first time. Dandelion, I genuinely feel, has some inkling and is his usual self about it until it all officially clicks in his head. 
> 
> I have no idea as an author if that comes through or not, but with things being so hectic and the fact this is fic, I don't know if it's well portrayed but it is what it is, and life is too insane right now for me to go back and nitpick the crap out of my own work when I don't get paid for it lol. So here's the clarification. 
> 
> So, fic Dandelion is a weird mashup of Hexer, book, and Netlix Dandelion, but mostly Book/Hexer...and book Dandelion's ego is pretty much a huge problem for them more than once, and I refuse to make him perfect. He's kind of a self absorbed doofus but he really cares about Geralt, so... enjoy that hot mess.


	9. In Which Dandelion Makes things Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to the commenters, my beta, and the people who have hit that kudos button.   
> But seriously thank you ruusverd, I have no idea if I fix all the things I need to, or not, but you take the time to look it over and point out the weird things that I do -and random inaccuracies in the fic etc. <3 you're the best. 
> 
> Every so often I get a comment and think: I should probably try and write the last two chapters or so before I run out of things to post.

Geralt stares at her, that familiar sinking sensation bringing his stomach straight to his throat. Another glass of wine does nothing to help him feel any better about any of it. “In decades you’ve never asked. Can’t you just let it lie?” he asks her.

“Apparently not,” she gets up and sits on the bench next to him, resting a hand on his knee. 

“Stay out of my head, Yennefer,” he tells her in a low voice.

“I will.” 

“Will you?” 

“I will,” she says firmly. 

“Then that’s the end of it,” he says abruptly, starting to stand up. He stares at her hand on his leg, pushing down, keeping him at the bench. “Yennefer, I am not doing this.” 

“Why not? If it is such a small thing, if it doesn’t mean anything, why are you so afraid to talk about it?” 

“Did you not see all the fuss he’s kicking up already? And now I’ll have you playing nursemaid, too? I think not. What I’ve done, or haven’t done, is mine. I don’t owe it to you.” 

“I’m not asking for all of it, just the part that scares you so bad it’s keeping you out of one of the places you most want.” 

“I don’t think it’s keeping me out of anything,” Geralt counters, picking up another grape. He looks it over before popping it into his mouth and slowly chewing. “I slept where I wanted, for as long as I pleased.” 

“This isn’t helping,” Dandelion breaks in. “You aren’t as guarded with her. You don’t flinch away from her like you do me. I want to fix this, so it doesn’t come up again. Or at least so I can understand it.” 

“I don’t understand what you don’t understand,” Geralt gives him a sneering smile. “I think you’re playing incredibly stupid on purpose.” 

“He wouldn’t, and you know it.” 

“He can be stupid.” 

“Yes, as can you. Pull your head out of your ass, Geralt.” 

“It… What do you want? Just tell me what you want me to say, or do, and I’ll do it, and perhaps we can move on?” 

“The fuck?” Dandelion starts, half standing up and Yennefer holds up a hand. 

“What do you think we want you to say?” she asks, looking at her nails, as she carefully cleans under them. He much prefers that she not look at him when they’re having a confrontation. The more she ignores him, and the calmer she can stay, the better. Which isn’t exactly easy since she’s not known for keeping her cool and not blowing her top. 

“Some lie, some pity story about how I’ve had some unpleasant fucks, and now it’s ruined me. The guards beat me, and burned me, and cut me, which is about what one would expect from a torturer. They did most all the things I’ve seen done, nothing all that inventive. I was waiting for them to start removing body parts, other than fingernails, of course. They had started on one or two, once or twice, and got stopped. I don’t know why. I don’t care,” he snarls. “Dandelion is far more upset about it than I am.” 

The bard sputters and again Yennefer holds up her hand. Be quiet, she wants to snap at him. He’s telling us things, just stay quiet. She glares at him, “I can magic you quiet,” she says softly. 

“Don’t bother,” Geralt snaps. “Silly ass will just find a way to make even more noise. Nothing you do will stop him from pushing this. Are we finished?” 

“We’ve already seen what they did to you, I don’t think that’s what he meant.” 

“Perhaps I just am not in the mood to be fucked!” 

“That’s not the problem!” Dandelion stands up and slams a palm on the table. “You never much cared when we shared a bed before if I was pitching a tent. You didn’t pull away! Something changed! The problem is that you seem to think I’d try and force you, and we all know I’m not strong enough even if I wanted to! Not that I ever would, Geralt, that’s the problem. You act like I’d try to bend you over this table right here if the mood suited me. And like you’d have to let me if you wanted me to stay by your side. And I’m not with you so I can stick my cock in you. I don’t care if I never do that again,” his voice slowly winds down to a whisper. “I’m not with you for sex, Geralt. I can figure that part out on my own.” 

“As you do, cuckolding your way across the continent.” 

“That’s not what I meant. If you asked me to stay faithful to you and told me you would have no contact with me of that nature, I would figure it out. There are so many things we can still do when you’re ready. Should you be wanting. The problem is you don’t seem to see this as a choice. And it is! It’s completely a choice!” 

“So, I’m stuck having this conversation all over again, because I don’t want to fuck you, and that’s my choice? But it’s not my choice whether this conversation keeps happening over and over again. It’s like being trapped in a curse! Forced to repeat the same thing, pushing up a boulder over a hill just to have to push it the other way the next day. I have had this conversation! This is the third time!” Geralt half shouts, losing his temper. 

“This is the third time you’ve _refused_ to have this conversation!” Dandelion interrupts and Yennefer debates turning him into a bauble. 

“How am I refusing!?” Geralt’s voice rises in pitch and he stands up, heedless of Yennefer’s hand on his leg. She lets it drop. She has no interest in trying to overpower him. 

Yennefer rubs at her temples, clearly this isn’t working. “Geralt, sit. Dandelion, stop it. You sit, too. Enough of this. Both of you enough. I think Geralt is aware sex is a choice, so I think we can move past that being the problem. Yes?” she asks, looking right at Geralt who glares at her, but sits. “Regardless of what you will or won’t admit, it appears safe to assume that you for some reason, feel that Dandelion does not have your best interests at heart?” 

Putting both elbows on the table, he puts his head into his hands. “This is hell, there are gods, I’ve been wrong, and they trapped me in hell,” he mumbles into his palms. “Fuck.” 

With a narrowing of her violet eyes, Yennefer looks at him. Hesitantly, she puts a hand on his shoulder and he flinches before looking at her and stilling. 

“I can say whatever you want that makes this stop. Do whatever you want. That’s all I’m asking, Yen. Make him stop.” 

Dandelion raises both eyebrows and opens his mouth and then, for once, thinks better off and shuts his mouth with an audible click. 

“I am not mediating this,” she tells Geralt gently. “But I am involved.” 

“Fuck this,” he stands up again, shrugging away her arm. He starts working the ties of his pants loose when Dandelion stands up in horror. 

“This is not what it’s about!” he shouts, half diving across the table to take Geralt’s hands as Yennefer stands up, too. “Stop it, stop it!” he’s half crying as he tries to keep hold of the witcher’s hands without hurting him. He’s hardly successful. 

The door creaks open and they all freeze, turning in horror to look as Ciri steps in, cheeks and nose red from the cold. “I wanted lunch,” she complains, then as she hangs up her snow dampened cloak, she looks at them again. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Geralt says first, fixing his pants and sitting down before gesturing for her to sit with him. He gives Dandelion a nasty look and ignores Yennefer entirely. “Dandelion and Yennefer were leaving, their own projects to work on,” he says. 

“We were not!” Dandelion tells him indignantly. 

Geralt rubs at his forehead again with a sigh. “Ciri, will you take your lunch in my room?” he asks politely. “My head hurts but I’d like to talk to you. It might be quieter in there, and therefore less painful.”

“Of course,” she says cautiously, glancing at Yennefer who gives her a subtle half shrug. The girl gathers up several slices of meat and cheese, piling them high on a few stacked slices of bread. As she starts to walk away, she thinks better of it, turns, and snags a bunch of grapes as well, setting them neatly on top of some of the cheese. “Coming?” she asks Geralt, confused as to why he isn’t moving. 

With a shake of his head to focus himself, he gets up and follows behind her. They shut the door and he wishes there was a way to latch it. 

**

“Well that went swimmingly,” Dandelion sighs. 

“It could have gone worse,” Yennefer says, examining her nails. 

“I don’t see how.” 

“He didn’t manage to get his pants down. Ciri will settle him. Hopefully he’ll rest and feel better and we can try again.” 

“Oh, so now you believe we should have this talk with him?” the bard asks incredulously. “Saying you’ll stay out of it, or it isn’t your problem, or I should let it lie, and now-”

“Now he seems to think that you are upset with him because he doesn’t want to bed you. It makes no sense to Geralt you would be upset he doesn't see things the same way you do, or simply put: he doesn’t understand you’re upset because he doesn’t understand. He is right, though, he has asked you to let it lie. And you won’t. If you’d let it be any of the times he’d asked, he’d be less resistant now. Now he’s just going to feel badgered and backed into a corner.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Dandelion protests. “I can’t leave things as they are, with him thinking I might force him onto his stomach and fuck him without-...” his eyes water and he chokes back a sob. “I can’t have him thinking I could do that to him.” 

“He doesn’t think about it one way or the other until you bring it up.” 

“He thinks what happens is some kind of transaction to keep me at his side.” 

“No, he doesn’t. Not really. If he did, he would have already rolled onto his belly for you without a word.” 

“That’s vile, Yennefer.”

“It’s true. If he truly thought that in order to keep you he would have to let you do whatever you wished to him, he would have already presented you with the option.” 

“I’m going to be sick.” 

“I imagine he feels much the same way every time you bring it up. Let it lie for a while. He doesn’t want either one of us in his bed to speak of, and he’s exhausted beyond words. He’s just starting to feel a bit like himself in pieces, let him have that before you dash him apart again.” 

“And if he puts himself together with the pieces still mangled and broken and won’t let us straighten any of them out?” he demands, leaning forward at the table. 

“That’s his choice. And somehow, I don’t think he’ll choose to remain as he was. I don’t think he can, Dandelion. I think he will be different no matter what he chooses. Fear and pain change people. Do you think he was always an irate, taciturn, surly grump of a witcher? Do you never think what he was like as a boy? Or just as a young man starting out free of the keep and the rules imposed on him?” Yennefer runs a hand through her curls, brushing them off her shoulders and away from her face. “He’s less angry with me, I’ll try and talk to him later. But you need to let it lie for now. Stop picking at him. He’s all scabs and hurt and you won’t let him heal.” 

“He wasn’t even speaking to me for me to be picking at him!” 

“You started on this wound years ago. It hasn’t healed in that time, he won’t manage to heal it this time either, not without help. I am not telling you to put it to bed forever. I am telling you to let him feel like he can protect himself or stand on his own two feet and hold his own before you prod at him.” 

“Is that right to do?” he whispers. “To just let him think at any moment I could do that to him?” 

“Geralt would believe it of most anyone. His faith has been broken too many times. It has taken me decades to make sure he knows I will not push him to do anything that truly bothers him when he’s in my bed.” 

“And how have you done that?” 

“Mostly by discovering through trial and error and stopping the second he starts to show signs of discomfort. Much like you would, I’m sure. Only I didn’t make him speak of it, I just moved on to something I knew he wanted.” 

“So you’ve let him avoid it all, and push around it rather than help-” 

Yennefer’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Rather than help him deal with it?” she snaps, standing up out of her seat. “You think I don’t grieve for what’s been done to him? For how he sees the world? You think I don’t understand intimately why he feels the way he does? You think I haven’t seen the same story a thousand times over during my time in Aedirn at the side of the king? You think I haven’t seen power and corruption at all levels including my time on the council?! You think I have no capacity for understanding human suffering, is that it?!” she demands, chest heaving in anger.

“No, I-,”

“He has to choose to heal! I can’t force him to do that! All I can do is stay by his side when he allows it, when we both feel the need, and when we don’t, I let him go! Life isn’t like one of your songs, you poetaster! Has your method worked any better than mine? Whose bed has he chosen to share as of late? He chose me to ride with him, and to make love to him, because he knows I will let him be.” She sits down and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I will not do this without him present. He’s mentally capable, and aware. Unlike before. I will not discuss him behind his back like he’s a child in need of parenting. He isn’t. He’s been alive longer than you and knows what he needs to do to survive. You can choose to work with him or against him. But I am done having this conversation.” 

She gets up and leaves the bard alone at the table.

  
  


**

Yennefer gives Geralt a few hours to settle down before she knocks on the door and lets herself in. He and Ciri are reading together, she’s draped across his knees with her own book as he rests his on the small of her back.

Ciri glances up, “I suppose I should go,” she huffs.

“I suppose,” Yennefer agrees placidly.

“Another fun adult conversation I’m not to be part of?”

“I doubt there will be anything ‘fun’ about it,” Geralt points out, closing his book with a sigh. In spite of Ciri’s earlier words about reading being a waste of time he had pointed out she couldn’t argue with him about philosophy unless she’d actually read some. She had agreed with him on that point and had picked up the heavy tome and started reading, initially complaining every few sentences before becoming fully invested in the challenge.

“Ciri,” Yennefer sighs.

“I’m going,” she kisses Geralt’s cheek after easing her body off of his. He catches her for a second, pressing a kiss on her forehead. She smiles at him. “Good luck.” She hadn’t failed to notice he had been deeply distressed earlier, but hopefully things would be better now. She keeps her finger in the book where she’d left off, taking it with her to go read somewhere else.

Once she’s out of the room Geralt looks at Yennefer. “Please don’t you start on me again, too.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you sure?” he asks her, running a hand over his hair.

“I’m sure. Can we talk, though? I will try and keep my temper even if you choose to be obtuse.”

“I will try and not cause you to lose your temper, and we can talk, but I don’t want to.”

“That’ll have to do,” she agrees. Yennefer watches as he shifts uncomfortably, fussing with the book in his hands and her heart breaks. “You know he wouldn’t force you, don’t you?” she asks him gently, not sure what she’d planned to say, but knowing that wasn’t it, either.

“It’s not that,” he whispers, looking away. Geralt hunches down in the bed, all of his previous comfort and ease gone. “Please, Yen.”

“I can’t stop him from pestering you unless I can give him something.”

“I don’t understand what he wants from me, Yennefer. He says it’s not about fucking and then gets upset with me every time as if it is all and only about it.”

“It’s how you react to it,” she says patiently, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed furthest away from him. She’s trying to give him space if he needs it.

“It’s my body! It’s none of his damn business what I do with it,” he snaps, then presses a hand to his forehead tiredly. “I’m sorry.”

“It is, you’re right. And I’ve told him to stop asking you and pushing you to talk about things you aren’t ready for. Or don’t want to talk about, Geralt. But you’ve been different, even before this. Something hurt you. Changed you a little. He sees it, in his own way, and he’s an idiot who can’t leave well enough alone. He asks because he cares. He thinks if you tell him what happened to you, you’ll feel better.”

Geralt snorts. “He asks me the same questions over, and over, Yen. I have the same answers. I don’t know what he wants to hear. So what, so what they did whatever they wanted that they knew would hurt me? So what if I’ve been in that position before? It doesn’t change anything. I still want him.”

“It changed something, darling,” she tells him gently, leaning across the bed to taking his hand. “Whether you realize it or not, it changed something.”

“I don’t want to fuck him right now,” Geralt shrugs. “It’s not true what they say about witchers being insatiable. You know that.”

“I know, I don’t know what he wants to hear either, Geralt. But I know he worries that you can’t even feel comfortable near him anymore.”

“That’s his fault,” Geralt grumbles. “He won’t leave off. What else am I supposed to do?”

When Geralt doesn’t pull away from her, she shifts closer on the bed. Yennefer settles herself in the middle, back against the headboard. He can choose to come the rest of the way to her or not as he pleases, but at least she’s near him if he needs her. “Tell him the truth, Geralt. Tell him that when his cock presses against you it’s not him you fear, it’s not his cock, it’s the memories. That’s what makes you tense.”

“That would imply I’d done something I regretted.”

Yennefer remembers her promise to try not to lose her temper and looks up at the ceiling for a few moments. “No one thinks you did anything,” she says flatly.

He looks at her. “Please stop,” he pleads.

“What do you want me to do, Geralt? Sweep it under the rug? Pretend it didn’t happen? What would you like me to tell Dandelion that you haven’t already said?”

His golden eyes fill with tears and she hates herself. “Tell him to leave it alone. Tell him I still love him. Tell him if he won’t stop, I don’t know how I can stand to be in a room with him. Tell him that, see what good it does,” his voice shakes.

“Oh, Geralt, if only you hadn’t already tried all of that,” she whispers, reaching out to trace a scar across his jaw.

“Then keep him away from me,” the tears spill over.

“That isn’t what you want, is it? Not really. You want to be able to sleep next to us just like before.” She kisses his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears on her lips.

“I can’t sort out the difference between…I can’t,” he tells her in a choked voice. “When I wake up and he’s pressing against me, Yen…I… I’m back in that room, I’m helpless. I don’t know how to get past that!”

“I know,” she tells him quietly, holding out her arms. He collapses into her; grateful the conversation seems over. “You will, though. If you want to. I’ll try talking to him one last time, and if not I’ll do as you asked, and keep him away. Or make sure someone else is with you, too. I’ll do my best, Geralt. At some point you have to drop your guard enough he can see how much he’s hurting you by not listening. You snap and snarl and he thinks it’s like always. All bark no bite. You’ve fallen in love with an idiot in foppish clothing. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Geralt manages a small chuckle, knowing she’s trying to comfort him. It’s not exactly her strong suit, but that’s perhaps why it works as well as it does. She’s not obviously lying when she does it. He lets his body relax when she starts to stroke his hair, she doesn’t seem much inclined to keep talking.

“Did you know your hair has some curl to it?” she asks idly, teasing the short strands. There’s not much yet, but she can already tell when he has another inch or two of growth it won’t be straight like she’s used to seeing it.

“No,” he admits, oddly curious. When she holds out her hand and twitches her fingers, a mirror rises off the small vanity at her call. She takes it neatly when it’s close enough and holds it up for him.

“Look, you’ve got a hint of wave, see?” she kisses the side of his head.

“I look awful,” he tells her, looking away almost immediately.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yen, I might look stupid-”

“Geralt.” She can barely keep the frustration from her tone. “Do you not remember the three of us in the keep with you?”

“I do.”

“Your face will heal. It’s still healing. You already look much better.”

“It’s hard to imagine worse.”

“I thought you were going to die,” she tells him hoarsely. “I thought even if I spent all my magic, I wouldn’t be able to save you because you were so hurt you would just die in your sleep and leave me with all of this mess. Leave Ciri… so no, Geralt, you do not look awful. You look wonderful because you are alive. You’re visibly alive, you’re visibly healing and improving, so don’t you _dare_ start. I love you, I love your face, your body, all of you, Geralt. I wish you would stop hating it. I don’t know how to make you understand how much it grieves me you can’t see what I do.”

He looks at her with wide eyes, uncomprehending. Geralt hadn’t meant to make her cry. She leans over to set the mirror down on the nightstand, and then straightens back up, forcing herself into calm. She will not cry just because he’s being dense. She wipes her face roughly and takes a few breaths, knowing he’s at a loss for how to fix it. Geralt tries to smooth her hair, hoping that will help. They sit together as she masters herself, both wishing they knew what to do to help the other.

“I love you,” he whispers after some time.

“I love you, too,” she promises.

“I don’t mean to keep hurting you.”

“You aren’t,” she says. “You hurt yourself far more than me.” She gently runs her fingertips up and down his arm, enjoying the comfort it brings them both. He turns to her, meeting her gaze before bringing his lips to hers, kissing her softly. She smiles, understanding he’s trying to fix things as best he knows how.

She gauges his interest carefully, and when she’s sure of it, she helps him slip out of his shirt even as he carefully undoes the stays of her dress.

“What if they walk in?” he winces, pulling away reluctantly.

“Easily fixed,” she informs him, casting a spell to seal the door. Yennefer grins and he cracks a smile in response.

They take their time divesting each other of their clothing, enjoying the feel of skin on skin in a way they haven’t had time for in ages. Geralt gasps softly as Yennefer eases his smallclothes over his aching cock, tossing them to the side of the bed. Rather than let him wear himself out simply undressing her, she kneels on the bed beside him to work her underclothes off, discarding them over the side next to his. He watches her with a mixture of love and hunger that makes her body burn with passion.

As she reacquaints herself with his body, noting new scars and avoiding old bruises and bandaging, she draws out new sounds from him she can’t recall having ever heard before. Usually, he’s the more patient of the two of them, content to play and touch without heat or immediate completion. This time, he seems unable to bear waiting, and slips a hand up the inside of her leg to touch and tease, making her moan quietly and mumble his name. She’s thankful his hands are healing nicely, it would be a shame for him to lose his skill in the bedroom or with a sword.

When Yennefer slips a leg over his hips, her knees bracing him on either side he arches into her, wishing she would slide down low enough to touch.

“A little patience,” she teases, lowering herself over his chest to lick his nipple, making him rut up into her again. She kisses across his chest feeling him move under her, trying to bring their bodies into contact more firmly. She simply raises her hips higher, preventing him from succeeding.

“Yen,” he pants, trying to encourage her with a hand on her hip, not sure how much his body will have to give. She kisses him and tries to hold back just a little as he continues to touch her and finds she can’t. She wants him as much as he wants her. She lets her legs slide open a little wider as she lowers herself down onto him, he catches on in time to guide himself into her, his back arching lightly in anticipation.

It takes a few moments to adjust and find the right rhythm and he does his best to hold on, not to come too soon. He’s not ready for the moment to end, not by a long shot. He watches her above him, drinking in the sight of her body moving with his knowing she’s watching him for the same reasons he’s watching her. He feels mildly possessive, loving that she is with him, she’s chosen him, he’s the one in her bed, touching her body and no one else.

He arches beneath her and she catches his cry between her lips, kissing him soundly as he drops, body pulsing with pleasure. His love for her in that moment overwhelms them both, and without her hands on his shoulders, grounding her, she would have gotten lost in it.

“Oh, Geralt,” she whispers to him softly, sliding her body off of his and ignoring the soft cry of distress that pours out of his throat. He wasn’t ready to be apart from her. “I’m right here,” she promises, kissing his cheek and easing her body against his. He stills, pulling her close despite his still healing wounds. “I’m not leaving,” she promises, lips against his ear. “Sleep, Geralt. I’ll be here when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who left me comments last week. I always smile when I find out people are still reading this. And i enjoy the stories about your pets & everything else.   
> Life is crazy, as always. So sometimes your comments are the only nice thing that happens all day :P Some days not so much, but other days yeah. 
> 
> So thank you guys.


	10. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bad y'all. I'm genuinely sorry this took so long for me to edit. Not that you're asking for a diary entry, or an explanation, but things have been hectic, I've been doing my best to just take care of myself and keep the animals alive. Finances have been rough so I've been picking up extra shifts at every job I can, but I finally have a working phone, so I'm very excited. And I'm thankful to have the week off from my salaried job so I can get my room cleaned up, laundry done, etc etc, and maybe write some fic. If nothing else, I have time to edit. 
> 
> Thank you again to Ruusverd. Thank you for editing, thank you for remembering Midinvaerne, thank you for fixing so many weird sentences I struggled with in this chapter. And also thank you for just messaging me sometimes, and being an online friend. :)

Geralt wakes up slowly, feeling the best he has in weeks. His body is loose and he feels calm in a way he hasn’t been able to since he was captured. He can feel the weight of a warm body on his arm and against his side, and when it shifts slightly, he realizes they’re both naked under the covers. He tips his head to kiss Yennefer’s forehead, and feels her smile and kiss his chest under her cheek.

“Again?” she asks him in a teasing voice, the hand on his chest slipping down to his groin to stroke his length gently. “Shouldn’t we eat first?”

He can tell from her tone she’s more than happy to seek out a repeat performance of earlier. Geralt breathes deeply, enjoying the scent of her arousal mixing in with the smell of lilac and gooseberries. “Don’t stop,” he suggests, feeling his body shift slightly with each light brush of her fingers, almost as if it’s trying to follow her touch. “Never stop,” he mumbles, eyes closing in contentment.

Yennefer giggles, and kisses his cheek. “At some point we will have to,” she reminds him, pleased that he finds her touch so compelling.

“Not yet,” he points out, letting his hands wander up and down the curves of her body, enjoying how close she is to him. He nuzzles her neck and chest, kissing as much of her as he can without having to shift them in the bed, hips twitching as she continues to touch him as requested. It’s been a while since she’s had him to herself. All of him, not just the parts of him that remembered her. Not that he’s seemed himself until now, either. They kiss leisurely as she shifts one of her legs over his, allowing him to touch back in a way that is far more satisfying than his gentle strokes over her hips and breasts.

When his breathing starts to hitch, she kisses his throat and the line of his jaw, teasing the tender flesh with her lips and tongue as he climaxes into her hand. Geralt sighs deeply, tipping his head up as he shifts, body completely relaxed. Remembering he was in the middle of something, he raises one hand to cup her cheek and resumes moving the other, until his name rolls off her tongue and she collapses at his side.

“You’ve always been very good at that,” she smiles in satisfaction.

Geralt gives her a hazy smile in return, ready to go back to sleep. He groans when she shakes his shoulder lightly. “Can’t the magic just bring food in here?” he complains and she laughs again, kissing his cheek.

“No, it can’t. And you need a bath. And probably those bandages changed.”

“I don’t want to,” he informs her, then opens on eye to look at her.

“The water will be warm. The food will taste good, and it will help you build up your strength. How will you wield a sword again if you’ve gone to skin and bones?”

“Haven’t got any swords anymore,” he tells her.

“You have,” she frowns. “Geralt, they’re in the stables with Roach, I thought you saw. You dropped one on the battlefield, I found it. The other, your silver sword was strapped to her packs like always. You haven’t lost anything.”

“Why the stables?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d feel safe here and didn’t want you accidentally sticking Dandelion in the night. I thought you’d notice them, though. I never meant for you to feel they were hidden.”

Geralt nods a bit to show he’s heard her but doesn’t have much of a response. “Not much point in getting dressed, is there?” he asks her, choosing to change the subject.

“You intend to walk to the bath in a sheet?” she asks him quirking a brow.

“It’s dark out, Ciri should be abed.”

“She isn’t a child anymore, Geralt, she keeps the hours she chooses.”

“She’s seen worse than me in a sheet,” he points out.

“Do what you will, just come with me.”

“I will.”

It takes Yennefer a few minutes and several kisses to encourage Geralt to get out of bed. He follows her to the baths, fingers laced into hers. She hates that he still limps, and still hurts, but his spirit seems a little better. For once, she doesn’t complain or rush him when he soaks, letting his body float slightly in the water until the pain from the heat becomes unbearable. When he climbs out, she helps him dry off, not mentioning that he’s trembling with exhaustion.

“Much better,” she informs him fondly, gently toweling off his hair and pressing a kiss on his chest alongside his medallion. Geralt patiently tolerates being bandaged up again, the salves soothing against his skin where the water had inflamed it. “We need less each time,” Yennefer smiles. “That’s good, Geralt.”

“It’ll be good when I don’t need any at all,” he grouses, and she frowns. “I’m sorry,” he winces, “can we take food back to the room?” he suggests as a peace offering. Earlier she had wanted to eat. He’s not feeling especially hungry but he’ll eat if it will please her.

“Your intention is to wrap yourself in a dirty sheet again?” she teases, allowing him to try and smooth things over again.

“A clean towel,” he smiles crookedly.

“Alright then, let’s go.” She laughs when Geralt offers her a somewhat creaky courtly bow and his arm. She curtsies back and takes the offered arm. It’s a simple matter to fill a plate or two with food and carry it back to his room. Yennefer is thankful the sheets magically change themselves; she would have taken him to her bed rather than settle in on soiled sheets after bathing.

Geralt picks at the food while she combs out her damp hair and changes from one shift to another, enjoying the comforting smell of lilac and gooseberries filling the room. He sees no point in putting on clothes until he intends to leave the room for more than a few minutes. Sometimes they catch on the bandaging or brush against raw skin and the omnipresent pain is exhausting. Before she’s done getting ready, he’s asleep on top of the bedding, food barely touched and set aside on the small nightstand.

Yennefer glances at him and puts down her comb. After a moment’s hesitation she takes his hand gently and whispers the words of a familiar spell, then carefully pulls the blankets out from under him so she can tuck him in. He shifts and grumbles to himself in his sleep and she smiles. It’s a simple matter to open the window enough to let the kestrels fly free, and then before the room cools she closes it and pulls the heavy curtains closed. After she eats, she crawls into bed beside him and gently trails her fingertips over his skin in looping patterns that never touch his scars.

**

Days pass and Geralt continues to heal. He enjoys continuing his literary debates with Ciri and helps her with her learning over various plants and herbs. When the nightmares are too strong, he sleeps in the stables with Roach.

His hair continues to grow out into soft white curls that Ciri adores and spends time in the evenings brushing and styling. He tolerates it because it feels good and because she enjoys it. Frequently she has expressed a hope that as his hair gets longer it will turn to ringlets and he sincerely hopes that it will not. The weight will pull it straight again, and he won’t feel ridiculous. She enjoys working oils into the hair, and when he pushes her about it, he finds out she’s so relieved his hair is growing back at all she’s determined to make sure it’s healthy. He hadn’t seen himself at his worst and had only looked in the mirror once since being rescued. The scabs and burns continue to heal and Ciri happily plays nursemaid because it allows her to monitor his progress. He won’t attempt to do anything overly physical, walking to the stables and back or taking Roach for a short ride is more than enough to wear him out for days at a time.

His relationship with Dandelion is still frayed, and it tears him apart that he can’t figure out how to fix it. The bard is equally lost, unsure how to bridge the gap between them without hurting Geralt again. Guilt keeps Geralt away from both his lovers until he can’t bear it and he seeks out comfort in Yennefer’s arms.

“ _I don’t understand it, Yennefer. Clearly he isn’t afraid of sex.”_

“ _He isn’t afraid of you, either, he’s afraid of remembering things he doesn’t want to.”_

“ _Such as what?” the bard had exploded, frustrated_.

“ _Did it ever occur to you that while he doesn’t fear_ your _cock, he’s afraid that being around it will make him remember what they did to him in the torture chambers?”_

“ _And what do you know of what they did?”_

“ _On top of what I can see from just looking at him!?” she laughed incredulously. “You forget, Dandelion, I can read minds. I can see dreams. I know better than you ever will what he’s afraid of.”_

“ _I wouldn’t do that to him, and he won’t even let me talk to him to tell him I don’t want to touch him that way at all if he doesn’t-”_

“ _He knows that,” she had interrupted, annoyed. “He knows full well you won’t force yourself on him. What he doesn’t know is that you won’t force a conversation on him that he can’t have right now and send him spiraling places he doesn’t want to be. Not to mention he feels like he can’t trust you to know to stop once you’ve hit a nerve! He asks you several times and you ignore him and don’t listen. How can he feel safe with you? You ask him what he wants and then ignore it when he tells you. He’s asked you to let it go. Let it lie. If he never wants to talk about it, he doesn’t need to.”_

“ _He’s refusing to heal from this.”_

“ _No, he isn’t. Just because he isn’t healing on your schedule doesn’t mean he isn’t healing. Do you think I like this?”_

“ _I don’t think you mind him warming your bed.”_

“ _You think I wouldn’t prefer he seek solace in you? That I wouldn’t wish all of his upset and suffering be dealt with between you two so I could simply focus on finding Vilgefortz? The fact you can’t be trusted to leave him be is the reason he won’t come to you. He hurts just as much as you do, that there’s a rift between you. If he felt he could trust you he’d have closed it already!”_

“ _What do I do?” he spread his hands helplessly. “I miss him. He’s right there across the table from me at every meal and he sits in the evenings by the fire while I play the lute and I miss him.”_

“ _He misses you. Stop staring at him and sighing and moaning and he’ll start to think perhaps he can manage it. He’s a human being but consider how you might coax a feral cat to you. Stop making eye contact and stop trying to crowd him. You keep chasing him away. If he wouldn’t be miserable, I’d simply portal you to a busy city and leave you there to make my life easier.”_

“ _Then I suppose it’s good he likes having me around.”_

“ _Should that change I will gladly be rid of you.”_

_Dandelion knew she didn’t truly mean it. They were getting closer the longer they were together. Their love of Geralt and Ciri bound them together._

**

Geralt eases his body out of bed with a groan of pain. While he’s starting to mostly look like a human again, he doesn’t feel like himself. He’s still too weak, too broken to be useful. He splashes his face lightly with cool water from the basin, looking out the window longingly. With Aard and Igni he could clear the little courtyard and work with Ciri on her swordplay. He’s seen her out there several mornings, going through her footwork and wrist exercises. She’s asked him to join her several times and he always refuses. He can barely hold a cup without his hands shaking and he can’t bear the humiliation of not being able to lift a sword.

He glances around the room he’s spent most of a month in and sighs. A simple bed, two small nightstands, vanity, dresser, and cedar chest make up the furniture. Yennefer has spent quite a bit of time in the chair by the vanity in the mornings, combing out her hair and applying her beauty products. He can’t see why she needs the latter but he enjoys watching the former.

A careful investigation of the drawers had shown several spare sets of underclothes, some thick woolen stockings, a few shirts and breeches, and not much else. The chest at the foot of the bed held spare blankets and quilts, but nothing of any real interest to him. He was plenty warm in the bed with the eiderdown and sheets. Especially when Yennefer joined him. Ciri’s room was next to his, and she frequently woke him from nightmares, but slept at his side with decreasing frequency. It distressed him but he opted not to say anything. Half his nightmares were simply that she was gone again, taken from him and lost forever. Her presence was enough to alleviate his terror. He wasn’t brave enough to enter her room, not without explicit permission, as much as he would have liked to go in as he pleased and pull her to his chest and know his daughter was safe and protected.

He cracks open the window, letting the cold sweep over his sweaty body, easing the fear from another nightmare. He can’t seem to make them stop. It’s embarrassing and he again wishes the Trials and Changes had burned the feeling out of him. Rubbing at his forehead, he leans his head against the metal frame of the open window, letting his eyes droop closed. It’s snowing again, the clouds in the distance dark with storms to come, and the trees around the courtyard dusted as if in preparation for Midinvaerne.

The jingle of metal at the very edges of his hearing sends his entire body into swamping panic. They’ve been found. He isn’t strong enough to ride the long distances required to escape even in good weather, much less snowstorms. While they could portal, once they arrived it would be easy to find them. Sick to his stomach, he’s frozen in indecision. Geralt doesn’t want to be left behind again, but he would rather be tortured again than let Ciri fall into Nilfgaard’s clutches. Best of all would be to die beforehand and skip the torture part altogether while his family escapes.

The hunting cry of a kestrel sounds across the air, dampened by the snow. He freezes, having chosen to alert the others. He knows the sound of that kestrel, or at least one like it. A black bird soars above the trees, and he wipes sweat off his brow. He tries to stop panting, and quickly tugs on smallclothes and pants, tilting his head to listen for the rider. Perhaps the mysterious visitor will speak or do something and Geralt will recognize them. He listens silently, unmoving until he sees a cloaked figure walk out of the trees leading their horse. He knows that horse, and he knows that rider.

Half-dressed, he bolts from the room as quick as his aching body will allow. His feet still pain him greatly and he’s not sure he’ll ever walk or ride again without discomfort. Chest heaving, he barrels down the hallway and past the table in the dining hall to slam himself into the doors that lead outside. They require a bit of effort to push them open and he doesn’t have time to waste. Geralt allows his body to roll down the door as it opens so some of the shock is absorbed.

Dandelion stands up in shock when Geralt flings himself against the wood, almost dropping his lute in his surprise as he knocks over his goblet of wine. “Geralt-!” he calls out and is utterly ignored. The white-haired man rushes out into the snow without a moment’s hesitation.

“Eskel!” the cry rips itself from his throat and the cloaked figure freezes before throwing off his hood and opening his arms as Geralt slams into him hard. They go down in a tangle of limbs and fabric, Eskel clutching Geralt tightly and taking the impact himself, Geralt safe against his chest.

Eskel’s horse snorts and dances away from the two witchers, absolutely disgusted with the long journey through snow and ice and eager to find a warm stable stall.

“Geralt, is that really you?” Eskel asks, raising a gloved hand up to cup Geralt’s cheek, staring at his emaciated form. “Where’s your hair?” he asks, running fingers through the snow-damp curls. “I forgot you had curls as a boy,” he snorts, groaning as Geralt presses back into his chest, refusing to speak. “Let me put my horse in the stables, and we’ll get reacquainted, alright?” he suggests, and feels Geralt’s arms squeeze tighter around him for a moment before good sense wins out and he rolls off Eskel to pull himself to his feet.

It takes Eskel a few minutes to get his horse back under control as the animal crow hops in irritation once or twice to show how much he did not appreciate being left in the snow while the wolves played.

“You fucker! Hold still!” he catches hold of the bridle and then turns to look at Geralt. “Speaking of fuckers, where’s your shirt? Or coat? Or boots?” he asks in surprise. “Geralt…?” he strips out of his cloak and wraps it around Geralt’s shoulders, tucking it securely around him. “Show me the stables, and we’ll get you inside,” he runs a comforting hand up Geralt’s arm, feeling the other man shiver in the snow.

“Stable’s over here,” Geralt tells him hoarsely, limping to the door and pushing it open. The two witchers get Eskel’s black gelding settled alongside Roach. The two horses greet each other in low whickers and soft burrs.

“The fuck happened to you?” Eskel asks him quietly, once Scorpion is secured and fed, his tack hanging neatly nearby.

“What’s it look like?” Geralt grimaces, trembling from pain, cold, and exhaustion. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep his feet and darkness threatens the edges of his vision.

“Let’s get you inside,” Eskel suggests gently, slipping an arm around Geralt’s ribs only for him to hiss in pain. Eskel sighs softly and pulls his cloak aside to bare Geralt’s back, and curses as he sees blood has begun soaking through the light bandaging. He can see mottled bruising all over his friend, and various signs of pain and abuse cover Geralt’s trembling body. The stable isn’t the place to delve into it, and he tucks his cloak around Geralt again securely, trapping his arms before hoisting him up over his shoulder like a rug. He grabs up his saddlebags and pack and slings those over his other shoulder with a grimace that twists the scar on his face.

Geralt shouts in annoyance and tries to kick but Eskel simply pins his legs and holds onto them as he walks out of the stables, unsurprised to feel the other man slump against him, too exhausted to keep fighting.

The kestrel sweeps around them a few times, circling before disappearing into the air as Eskel reaches the door of the castle. He speaks the spell the kestrel had told him and pushes the heavy doors open. Once inside, he deposits Geralt on his feet, doing his best to brace him as he sways unsteadily. Ignoring Geralt’s fussing he removes the cloak and hangs it to dry on a peg by the door, alongside the others he sees there.

Dandelion is swearing as he blots wine from his papers, his lute perched delicately on a chair pulled well back from the table. “Eskel!” he smiles broadly. “Oh, it’s good to see you. How did you find us?”

“A wee birdie told me,” Eskel grins. “Tell me, do I have a minute to clean myself up from the road before we talk? I can smell myself.”

“By all means, I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate witcher’s nose. I’ll let Ciri and Yennefer know you’re here. And then I’ll see if I can find some food that’s more than something to snack on for us to eat and you can tell us about your travels. Hopefully not all news of the world outside of the mountains is bad.”

“There’s some to tell, yes,” Eskel agrees and smiles easily, the scar twisting up the side of his face. “Tell Ciri I hope she’s kept up on her training, I’ll be testing her out after I’ve had time to digest my meal.”

“She will be thrilled,” Dandelion smiles. He winces when Eskel swings Geralt up into his arms, having given up on the idea the other man might be able to walk with him. Geralt curls into Eskel automatically, even if he does punch him in the chest ineffectually. Blood continues to spread across the bandaging and the bard hisses in sympathy.

“Are there supplies down there?” Eskel asks, able to smell the minerals in the water and hear the slapping of soft waves against the sides of the rock. He won’t need to be shown around. Lifting his chin, he could scent his way to Geralt’s room without any guidance. Even from the main hall he can smell the stink of nightmare sweat.

“There’s both healing and bathing supplies,” Dandelion looks at the blood starting to soak into Eskel’s gloves. “Do you need help?”

“No, we’ll be alright. Thank you,” he adds politely. He jostles Geralt once in his arms to see if the other man is even still awake. He gets an annoyed grunt and another half-hearted slap to his shoulder, but not much of a response beyond that.

“I can walk,” Geralt tells him.

“You can’t stand,” Eskel argues, giving Dandelion a wink as he started down to the hallway and turned to go down the stairs to the bathing chamber. He’s pleased to see an entire bench of medical supplies and then several shelves of small soap cakes and towels along with anything else someone might wish for cleaning.

He dumps his saddlebags and pack down on an empty bench near the larger pool. He strips off his gloves and surcoat before helping Geralt sit. He starts unwinding the bandaging over his back and chest, face grim. Geralt hunches away, able to smell the sharp stink of anger rising off his friend. “Who did this?” his voice shakes in anger as the wrappings fall away to reveal Geralt’s mutilated back.

“They’re all dead,” Geralt tells him simply, feeling Eskel’s calloused fingers trail over new scars and avoid the open wounds. He shivers as a chill runs up his back at Eskel’s gentle touch. The other witcher walks the edges of new flesh and places where the skin is still struggling to regrow and close over open sores.

“If this is you looking better, then it’s a good thing they’re dead,” Eskel tells him in a flat voice that would be terrifying to anyone else, but to Geralt it’s comforting. He allows Eskel to explore the new scars in his scalp under his hair and closes his eyes as Eskel pulls first one arm away from his body to look over and then the other. Utterly unbothered by the way his witcher brother manhandles him, he lets himself doze until Eskel starts prodding him to stand.

Geralt strips out of his pants with help and sits back down, watching as Eskel starts to strip down. He doesn’t see any new scars worth noting and winces when Eskel grabs him by the ankle to examine his feet, pushing gently into his arches and the bottoms around the bone. Geralt hisses and tries to yank away, it hurts.

“It feels like fluid’s trapped in there,” he mumbles, wondering if anything can be done to help Geralt walk easier.

“Might just be ruined muscle,” Geralt tries to joke. “Turned to pudding under the skin.” He cries out in pain when Eskel pushes a thumb into the arch of his foot.

“I don’t think so.” He leans over to ruffle Geralt’s hair. “You need to start moving more,” he points out.

“It hurts,” Geralt grizzles, trying not to get drawn into some kind of lecture.

“I’m sure,” Eskel agrees placidly. “It won’t stop being so bad unless you start training again and rebuilding your strength.”

“So I can tear new skin like gauze?”

“I’ll be here, I’ll help you,” Eskel reassures him, looking over his other leg. “But you’ve got to start somewhere,” he adds, examining the tightness of the muscle in Geralt’s calf. He gently presses on Geralt’s foot, holding under his calf as he stretches it carefully. Geralt doesn’t try to pull away but grips the bench he’s on so tightly his knuckles turn white. “We’ll start small, just like we did in training, Wolf.” He reverses the stretch, helping force his friend to point his toes downward, before switching back to his other leg.

Geralt allows Eskel to help him stretch out his arms and legs and put gentle pressure on his head while he stretches out his neck. If pressed, he would have admitted it felt good. Eskel continues to touch and prod, feeling for weaknesses in his bones, and checking over to see where the worst of the pain is. Satisfied with his examination, and with Geralt’s condition, Eskel scoops him up, ignoring the curses hurled at him and bodily heaves him into the deep bathing pool. He finishes stripping out of his clothes and starts easing himself into the pool when he notices Geralt is in distress.

Frowning, the other man should be able to stand in the water easily. It makes no sense he’s gasping and floundering, unable to get his feet under his body. While Geralt had been far from the best swimmer produced at Kaer Morhen he was by no means the worst.

Geralt had felt sudden panic when his body went weightless, and then absolute terror when he couldn’t breathe. It made no sense, he knew it made no sense. He could swim. He wasn’t encumbered by his sword, or heavy armor, or boots, he could swim. But his feet kept slipping on the rock beneath him, the fragile skin tearing rather than catching hold of the floor and he couldn’t _breathe._ If he could just breathe, he could think.

Eskel kicks off the side of the pool hard, catching Geralt under his flailing arms, and pulling him against his chest. “I’ve got you, Geralt, stand up, I’ve got you.” He sees red tendrils of blood in the water, and he's hesitant to wrap his arms around Geralt lest he aggravate the injuries even further. “Stop, stop flailing, I’ve got you, Geralt, I’ve got you!” He ducks his head to the side rather than allow Geralt to slam his head back and break his nose. Eskel takes a breath, daring himself to try something as he manages to get a grip on one of Geralt’s wrists. “I love you, I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose, stop fighting me.”

Geralt freezes, gulping air into his lungs frantically, feeling Eskel’s heartbeat against his own, and reaching a hand up to slip it around Eskel’s shoulders, clinging to him. The other one is still trapped by Eskel’s calloused grip and he whines low in his throat, twisting it to try and free it. No more, no more chains, no more ropes, no more. No more being trapped. Eskel releases him and gets a grip under his knees, pulling him up higher so he’s further out of the water. His whole body shakes violently, and he can’t master himself. The heat on his numbed limbs is unpleasant, causing them to sting painfully. The stretching had started to warm him but not enough to prepare him for the heat of the water.

Eskel feels Geralt’s legs lock around him and releases one of them to cup his cheek and hold him steady. He can’t tell if it’s water or tears on his friend’s face, but he can see the terror in his golden eyes, the pupils slitted to block out as much light as possible. “Geralt,” he presses their foreheads together, just like they used to as boys when they were scared or upset.

The pressure on the back of his skull is familiar and soothing and Geralt melts into it, one of his hands slipping up to the back of Eskel’s neck, holding tightly to stop him from pulling away. When Eskel lets go of his other leg he feels lost, but the water buoys him up as his own legs weaken further, he can barely hang on. He slips lower in Eskel’s grip, gasping in panic at the drop.

“I’ll get us out of here, give me a second, Geralt, calm down for just a minute,” he squeezes harder at the base of Geralt’s skull. The pressure grounds him, and he tries to breathe deeply and control his heartrate. The water against the edges of the pool slaps loudly every time they move and sets him further on edge. Eskel walks them to the lip of the pool, finding the stairs and bracing himself on the edge as he hauls both their bodies out, the water pulling at them. Too worn out to hold himself up, he’s grateful when Eskel shifts his grip again, hoisting him up and holding him close.

It takes a few minutes for Eskel to dry him and lay him out on a bench. Geralt slips in and out of consciousness as the other witcher tends his wounds and bandages his feet. Geralt comes to on the floor, stomach down, with towels folded neatly under his head. Eskel is scrubbing up in the pool a few feet away from him. He blinks slowly, feeling almost dizzy. It takes several minutes before he’s strong enough to push himself up into a sitting position. He almost pitches over and starts badly when Eskel catches him.

“Can you just lie down until I’m done?” Eskel asks him, ruffling his hair.

“How long?”

“A few seconds, at most, Wolf. You were only out a few seconds. I’ve been in the water less than a minute. I just got back in after I got you settled. I think your sorceress might take issue with your back, but I did my best. Geralt, rest. I’m here,” Eskel promises.

Geralt nods heavily and allows Eskel to help him lie back down. The chamber is warm enough he doesn’t need a covering. The heat and humidity have a soporific effect and he drifts back off into an uneasy sleep. Eskel finishes washing up a few minutes later, and dresses himself with fresh clothes from his pack, bundling the dirty ones away. He draws out another set of spares for Geralt, unwilling to put him back in the bloodied pants he’d been wearing before.

“Wake up, let’s get you dressed,” Eskel tells him, throat tight. Caring for Geralt like this forcibly reminds him of the Trials. Sick to his stomach at the thought of losing his brother he helps him into a fresh shirt and pants. They hang off the other man, highlighting the ravages of long-term pain and illness. He’s taller and broader than Geralt, even when Geralt was in peak physical condition, so while the clothes would never have fit, they wouldn’t have looked so comically depressing, either.

Geralt does his best to be helpful, head lolling as he tries to manage on his own and can’t. “Shouldn’t’ve run out there like an idiot,” he tells Eskel, yawning so hard his jaw cracks.

“No, I’m sure you shouldn’t’ve,” he agrees quietly. “I’ll get you to your bed.”

It takes a bit of careful shuffling but Eskel finds a way to lift Geralt without hurting him too badly or putting too much pressure on his injuries that doesn’t completely strip him of his dignity. By the time he gets them up the steps and into Geralt’s room, Dandelion has had time to clean up the wine spill and alert Yennefer and Ciri. Yennefer makes as if to get up and help and Eskel shakes his head.

“Ciri, we’ll need a plate of food, can you bring one?” Eskel asks her. He shakes Geralt a little, “Let’s get some food in you before you pass out, you’re too thin.” He feels as though he could count his friend’s ribs by sight alone.

“Don’t you need to know which room is his?” Dandelion asks, rising out of his seat to show Eskel the way.

“Nah, I can smell which one is his,” Eskel gives them a half smile. “I’ll be back,” he tells them, locking eyes with the enchantress for a moment.

Ciri is wrapping food in a napkin and piling more onto a plate, lifting a bowl in her other hand after stuffing the napkin into her pocket. Laden with food she follows the witchers to the room.

“Get out of here, girl,” Eskel says kindly after he settles Geralt on the bed, taking the bowl and plate so she can pull the food-filled napkin out of her pocket. “I’ll take care of him. And later, you have your sword, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she smiles.

“I hope you’re ready to work with it again. And that you’ve kept up with your exercises.”

“I have, Papa was… Geralt was teaching me, until…” her throat squeezes. “Geralt was… he’ll start again soon, as soon as he’s better.” She glances at his unconscious form on the bed. “Soon. He’s… he’s getting better all the time,” her voice cracks.

Eskel looks at her in concern, getting up and going over to hug her carefully. She pulls away after a few short moments. “Go’n back, I’ll wake him up and make him eat.” He grins at the face she makes. “I’m not afraid of him, Ciri. We grew up together. I know all his tricks. It’ll be alright.” Eskel gives Ciri a little push and another easy smile. She grins hesitantly back and slips out of the room. “Work on those wrist exercises if you’ve got nothing better to do!” he calls after her. “Geralt, wake up,” Eskel shakes his shoulder gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with the integration of this, and the behavior a lot, I'm not sure it reads right, but given how bizarre everyone in the keep behaves in book canon... I think the trauma reactions hold up and make sense in their own right. Not too sure, but. Just know I'm doing my best fam. Hope it reads well, hope you guys liked it.   
> Hope you enjoyed seeing Eskel again. I love him, too. 
> 
> If like me, you are working Black Friday, Godspeed this week, godspeed. I will be at work from 6am to 7pm roughly, so... I feel you. Here's hoping traffic isn't too bad so I can get to my second job without being late.   
> Comments are loved, I'd be excited to know anyone was still reading my fic after the hiatus in updates.


	11. In Which Eskel is Greatly Embarrassed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ruusverd as always. My hero, my salvation.   
> So fun fact is I had written chunks of this that got deleted, and went back and just wrote "I dunno wtf happens here" and somehow Ruusverd made it happen. So thank you. Seriously thank you so much.

With a soft moan, Geralt shifts miserably on the bed, protesting further discomfort. He does his best to ignore Eskel’s gentle nudges and soft voice and tries to roll onto his side to get away. It doesn’t work, and finally he opens his eyes in irritation, wishing he had the energy to form the Aard and cast it. “Fuck you,” he mutters.

“Fuck yourself,” Eskel tells him cheerfully. “After you eat. Right now you’d probably faint dead away the minute your cock stood up.”

“I hate you,” Geralt lies.

“I’m sure,” Eskel agrees blandly. “Now, eat up so you can sleep.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That doesn’t much matter, not when I can count your ribs and the knobs of your spine. Soon enough the thickest part of your body will be your cock, sad as that is, and it’ll never stand again as you waste away. What will your sorceress think?”

“She doesn’t mind it,” Geralt huffs irritably.

“You can feed yourself or I can feed you,” Eskel offers placidly.

Geralt groans and takes a breath to steady himself. Everything hurts, the last thing he wants to do is waste time eating. When he opens his mouth to protest again, Eskel shoves a grape into his mouth without warning. Spluttering in anger, he tries to spit it out to find a calloused hand clamped over his mouth.

“I wasn't joking,” Eskel informs him. “Eat on your own, and I'll let you be.”

With a mutinous glance, Geralt chews the grape and swallows, after having debated spitting the chewed fruit into Eskel's hand. He deliberately picks up a roll and bites into it, chewing it while making eye contact with his brother. As he finishes, he wishes that was enough. His stomach feels full as it is. While he had been recovering, he hadn't spent this much energy in ages and felt awful after his exertions. The soup is next. He doesn't bother with the spoon and lifts the bowl to his lips with trembling hands and drinks, watching Eskel over the rim. While he doesn't manage to do more than eat a few of the chunks of meat and vegetable in the bowl before he puts it down. Exhausted, he all but drops the bowl and Eskel catches it without a word.

“That's enough for now,” Eskel ruffles his curls and Geralt hisses in annoyance. The taller witcher removes the tray from the bed and sets it on the nightstand. The remaining food should keep for a few hours. “I'll be back and you'll need to eat more, so get used to the idea.”

“You're a real son-of-a-whore,” Geralt snaps.

“Possibly, it's not as if I know for sure, being one of the guttersnipes. Not some pampered son-of-a-sorceress. Take out your anger on someone else, Geralt. Someone who actually deserves it.”

“Myself, you mean?” he snarls. “Should I take it out on myself? I'm the one who failed!” his voice rises and his body shakes with suppressed anger. “I'm the one who got caught, I'm the one who failed to make them angry enough to kill me, Eskel. I'm the one who had the plan to sacrifice myself for Ciri! It was my plan, and I knew what the consequences were, and yet I... I’m still scared of it happening again. What choice did I have? If we had portaled together, we could be followed. Better to die and leave Ciri free and clear to live her life with Yennefer and Dandelion. Find a new land where no one could hunt them. We couldn't use magic. She could have killed all of those soldiers all on her own and maybe no one would have even known. But a sword is so much safer. Harder to track. I knew what I was doing and yet...” his voice cracks.

Eskel hesitates before he comes around and sits by Geralt on the side of the bed. “Geralt,” he slips an arm around the white-haired witcher's shoulders. “What happened to you?” he asks quietly. He's not sure he'll get an answer rather than a rude retort, but he has to try. “I can see it was bad.”

And so Geralt tells him, the words dripping like venom from his lips. Tears run over Eskel's scarred cheeks as he listens, pulling his brother into his arms carefully, not wanting to aggravate his wounds. Not once does Eskel interrupt him, letting Geralt bleed out the poison he'd been carrying for weeks. When he's done, the entire tale told, he lets his head hang in shame. “I should be dead. I deserve to be dead. I would rather be dead than feel like this,” he whispers.

Rather than reply, because there are no words, Eskel pulls Geralt carefully into his lap against his body, just like he had after Geralt had survived the second round of experiments. “Then we need to work on getting you better, so you don't feel like this anymore,” Eskel says simply. “You need to eat and move. Get your strength back. The rest will follow,” he promises. “I'll be here until you get better, just like before,” Eskel promises. “But stop fighting me, alright?”

“Don't try and drown me again and I'll do my best,” Geralt suggests, aiming for a teasing tone.

“I promise.” Eskel runs a hand up and down his arm comfortingly. “Go to sleep, Wolf. I'll be back before you wake.” He picks up the empty water pitcher to take with him. He'll fill it before he returns. Geralt needs to stay hydrated. He helps his friend ease into the bed and pulls the eiderdown up over him. “Rest, witcher,” he says reassuringly.

He gets up smoothly, barely jostling the bed. Geralt hardly moves, and Eskel checks to see that he's truly asleep. It hurts him to see his friend so diminished, so small, so fragile. With a heavy sigh he exits the room on silent feet. Unsurprised to see three anxious faces staring at him when he enters the main hall, he settles at the table before he looks up to speak. “Thank you, Yennefer, for sending a kestrel to me.”

“I sent one to Lambert, as well, I know he and Geralt have some history. I am glad you came.”

“He's not healing very quickly, is he?” Eskel asks softly.

“I've done what I can,” Yennefer tells him, and he believes her. She looks haggard despite still being stunningly beautiful. “I don't know what else to try. He takes potions to manage the pain, Ciri and I have brewed up as many salves and elixirs as we can think of. He needs to move more, but he won't.”

“He moves plenty with you,” Dandelion says pointedly and Ciri makes a face.

Yennefer's eyes flash and Eskel sighs. It seems as if they're all volatile and sick of being cooped up. He pulls some food towards himself and starts eating. He might as well not go hungry. “Peace,” he says firmly. “It won't do any good to fight over nothing. He's not healing and he should be. What's he doing when he's not sleeping?” he asks around a mouthful of potatoes.

“Sometimes he'll ride Roach for a bit,” Ciri offers cautiously. “He doesn't go far, and I usually help him saddle her or he rides with just a blanket.” If she's being honest, he mostly makes it a few laps around the courtyard before having had enough. “We read, and debate.”

Eskel nods a little to himself. Not enough activity. Not enough to want to live for, in his weakened condition. “Changing his bandages daily?”

“Not always,” Yennefer admits. “If he doesn't bleed through them or get them dirty there's no reason. If you haven't noticed, his temper isn't the best.”

“No,” Eskel agrees as Ciri nods off to his side. “It isn't. Never was.” He takes a long drink of wine from a goblet near his hand. “Magic castle? Geralt told me about one he was in once. I take it this isn't the same one?”

“No,” Dandelion smiles. “That was a different one. He found a bruxa there. Freed a man from a curse quite on accident.”

“Convenient. He often likes to do that sort of thing,” Eskel smiles faintly.

“Often at great personal cost,” Yennefer says bitterly, looking into her cup. “He likes to risk himself at every chance he gets.”

Dandelion frowns but doesn't say a word. She isn't wrong. He glances at Ciri and gives her a worried look.

“I don't know what you think I could do for him that you couldn't,” Eskel tells Yennefer. “He's not fit to fight, but if you're looking for me to get him there, he needs to heal first.”

“I think, perhaps, more we summoned you in hopes that you might bolster his spirits some, encourage him to want to get better,” Dandelion says quietly. “He made some great progress, from not being able to walk at all to being able to ride short distances and then... apparently race out of hallways and run into snowy courtyards to greet old friends,” he smiles a little. “It was the most life we've seen him show since we lost him.”

“How long?”

“Thirty-three days,” Yennefer says softly. “We got him back the thirty third day.” The pain is evident in her tone, and her knuckles whiten around her cup. “He languished in hell for thirty-three days because all the magic I dared use and more wasn't enough. If I could undo it, I would. If I could go back and stop him from ever sacrificing himself, I would. I would have made a portal and drawn us through it and we could have dealt with the consequences. What he's survived wasn't worth it.”

“Ciri's safety is worth everything to Geralt,” Dandelion protests. “He never would have agreed to a different plan.”

“True enough, you should listen to him, Yennefer,” Eskel looks up. “He said much the same. He wouldn't change anything.” Except he would have chosen not to live. He sees Yennefer's eyes widen slightly and knows she's caught the thought like he intended.

“I see you've been here a few hours at most and you've hit the heart of the problem.”

Ciri looks at her curiously and the bard's face hardens. He can tell from Yennefer's expression that whatever it is, it's horrible.

“Ciri,” Eskel smiles. “I expect in a few minutes you'll be ready to get to work?”

“I need to change.”

“Then do it and come back here with your sword.”

Rather than reply, the girl leaps up and races away to prepare.

“He would rather be dead than live with what's happened to him,” Yennefer tells Dandelion without preamble. “Or at least that's how he feels at the moment.” He doesn't always feel that way, she doesn't think, but she can't know. “That's why he's miserable and determined to drive you away and make it worse when possible. If he does leave us, he won't have to feel guilty knowing we're upset with him.”

“That's horrible,” Dandelion tells them. “Is that true? He said that?” The bard finds it believable. Geralt had been badly shamed by what had happened.

“I don't think he spared me any details while we talked. It's a lucky thing the people who did this are already dead. I could think of slower ways to kill them than what they put him through.”

“I suppose we all could. Although Yennefer assures me their death was exceedingly painful, if a little too quick.”

“I lost my temper,” she shrugs. “I'll go check on him,” she says and the bard sees the proud lift of her chin and the shimmer of anger in her eyes and knows she's trying not to cry.

“Don't be angry with him,” Dandelion tells her quietly. “He can't help it. He can't help who he is or how he feels about any of it. He didn't ask for any of this.”

“I know that,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “I know he didn't want any of it.” Not to be a witcher, not to lose Ciri, not to be in danger, not to be tortured, not to live on the run. She knows what he wants. A quiet home, one he built with his own two hands, and a simple life. One without constant pain and fear. He wanted to live with her, no fame, no glory, no monsters; Ciri to be safe and happy and able to visit as she pleased. A good life. An honest life. A beautiful dream and one she couldn't make into a reality with all the magic in the world.

She stands up from the table, jerking the chair back loudly across the stones. Eskel winces at the screech of wood on rock.

“He's been surly and rude in turns, and then almost like himself,” Dandelion says quietly.

“Are you lovers?” Eskel asks him abruptly. “At the keep, the three of you smelled like each other in a way you don't now. Or was he humoring the witch and bedding you to please her?”

Dandelion looks taken aback. He fidgets oddly with the cuff of his sleeve for a few moments. “I wonder that myself sometimes. But he's said that isn't the case. As of late, it much feels like it might have been. In spite of all the things he's said to the contrary. But he won't let me talk to him, either. He's very upset. I know something happened to him, beyond just the usual cutting and burning. And I know what it was. Even if he doesn't want to say it directly. But it's made him leery of me. I don't know why, and I don't know how to repair it if he won't let me. I care deeply about him, Eskel. And I don't mind if he never wants to make love again, but I do mind very much if he doesn't want me around.” He fidgets again with his hands, lightly scratching at the callouses on his fingertips. “I love him, you see. For better or for worse. I love him. I don't want to lose him entirely. But I won't force myself or my company on him.”

Eskel nods slowly. They had reeked of sex, before, but he hadn't been sure who was with who or in what capacity. Now, Geralt smells mostly like Yennefer and Ciri, under all the blood and infection and misery. “Show me where to refill this pitcher?”

“If you leave it, it'll fill itself. I'm surprised it hasn't already.”

“I will, then. Dandelion?”

“Yes?”

“I don't think you're in any danger of losing him. If you know what was done, then you know as he regains his strength he'll lose some of his fear. Your patience will go much further than your protests.”

“I haven't said anything to him in ages. He prefers not to eat with us. And if he does, he ignores me. Sometimes, he’ll come out when I play my lute, but he won’t come close. Usually he takes his meals with Ciri while they discuss their books. At least he's doing something. He looks a fright,” he frets miserably. “Barely eating. Weak. Miserable and angry in turns. At least he allows Ciri to maintain his hair, for all I think he only tolerates it because it pleases her so. She loves to wrap his curls around her fingers, to make them more obvious.”

Eskel snorts. “He must hate that.”

“He can't see himself, I don't think he knows. Once he sleeps on them they flatten some anyway. But it pleases her to do it and he'd stand on his head and sing for her if she asked.”

Ciri comes rushing back into the hall, face flushed and eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m ready!”

Eskel grins at her and gets up from the table after squeezing Dandelion’s shoulder briefly. He and Ciri go out into the courtyard to train. The girl acquits herself well and he’s proud she hasn’t forgotten any of what she’d been taught at Kaer Morhen. They enjoy themselves until she’s worn out and he heads back in with her.

Yennefer is back in the main hall, sitting by the fire with a wine bottle in her hands. He decides not to ask and simply joins her on the floor. Ciri goes to clean herself up and he chooses to take that time to talk to Yennefer and Dandelion about the world outside of the castle. Nilfgaard advancing, more plots and kingdoms trying to form allegiances to stop the encroaching horde, but so far no luck. Plenty of work for witchers, he’d been somewhat nearby when the kestrel had found him, busy finishing off some necrophages. He has no idea where Lambert is and has no interest in discussing what the Keep had been like after Geralt’s outburst and departure.

When Ciri returns he gets up to quickly rinse the sweat off himself before going to check on Geralt and rouse him for another meal. By the time he’s clean and heading back the pitcher is full of water and he picks up a few more rolls and another small bowl of soup to take with him.

Once inside Geralt’s room he settles the fresh food on the nightstand and feels deeply disturbed when he notices Geralt hasn’t stirred. “Wake up,” he says softly, gently shaking the other man’s shoulder. Deeply troubled that Geralt wasn’t awake the minute he was outside the door, much less inside the room by the bed, it takes a little coaxing to fully wake the white-haired witcher.

Geralt snaps awake with a soft cry of fear, raising an arm up to stave off a blow. It takes him a few moments to push past the mind-numbing terror and register Eskel. He sucks in an embarrassed breath and can’t bring himself to meet the other man’s gaze.

“Can you sit up on your own?” Eskel asks, rather than acknowledge what had just happened.

“Yes,” he grunts, working to get his body up. “What’s wrong?”

“Told you, you need to eat more often. Rebuild your strength. You still shaking like earlier or can you hold the bowl again, do you think?”

“I can feed myself.”

“Then do it,” Eskel tells him, shifting things around on the nightstand. “And drink,” he pours a cup of water out from the pitcher, pressing it into Geralt’s scarred hands. Geralt does as he’s bidden, draining the cup and realizing he was thirsty. He makes a face when Eskel gently pinches the exposed skin on his arm, checking the turgor.

“Is this your shirt?”

“Yes, my pants, too, so try not to piss yourself while you’re wearing them.”

“I suppose now I could manage to do so on purpose.”

“Easier to clean out than shit or blood, I suppose.”

“You would know,” Geralt agrees easily, trading the cup for the bowl of soup. He winces when it’s hot and ignores Eskel’s amused look. He drinks the broth first, before using his fingers to pick out chunks of meat and vegetables. “How much do you think I can eat?” he complains when Eskel sits next to him and holds out a roll.

“More than a cup of broth and some water.” He reaches out to gently push on Geralt’s abdomen and Geralt tolerates it a few moments before slapping his hand away in irritation. “You’re not full, so stop fussing.”

“Quite possibly I am, and my stomach just isn’t as large as yours,” Geralt leans forward slightly to jab Eskel in the side. His brother lightly catches his hand, rather than allow himself to be poked.

“Eat the roll. You’ll be less of an ass if you’ve eaten enough,” Eskel says tolerantly, releasing Geralt’s hand. “You’re too slow and weak to be trying to poke at me,” he adds with a crooked smile. When Geralt makes as if to toss the roll aside Eskel catches his wrist again. “I will make you eat, if I must. I didn’t nurse you through the after-effects of those experiments just to watch you starve to death now.”

“I’m not starving to death,” Geralt protests, but takes a bite of the roll, knowing Eskel is deadly serious. He eats it as quickly as he can without making himself sick. When it’s gone, he gratefully takes a second cup of water, unsurprised Eskel had known he would need it. He drains it slower than he had the first glass, feeling the coolness of the water travel through his body down to his stomach. “Please, no more,” he says quietly, setting the cup down on the edge of the stand. He suppresses a snarl when Eskel palpates his belly again. “Satisfied?” he asks when his brother pulls away.

“For now,” he’s utterly nonplussed by Geralt’s moods. He’d been far more unpleasant as a boy. “Up, c’mon, up you come,” he holds out his hands and Geralt looks at him in shock and annoyance. “You’re not going to lie there all day feeling miserable. C’mon, up.”

Once he realizes there will be no refusing, Geralt takes Eskel’s hands and allows himself to be pulled out of bed. He has to quickly grab at his pants to keep them on. Eskel snorts at him, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘see? I was right.’ “I’m not a dog that needs to be walked.”

“Could have fooled me, _Wolf,_ ” Eskel grins at him, ruffling his hair and Geralt hisses at him like a boiling kettle. “Oh please, what could you possibly do to me?” Eskel asks him and takes a few steps back, forcing Geralt to walk with him or fall over. “You ran outside, how can you not walk right now? C’mon old man, let’s move.”

Geralt’s protests and curses fall on deaf ears, and he finds himself dragged up and down the hall and up a few steps towards the tower no one but Ciri had bothered to go explore. Then back down, and then up a few more, and then down the hallway. By the time Eskel is done tormenting him, he’s sweating and shaking.

Rather than take Geralt back to his bed, Eskel forces him a few extra meters to the main hall, and sits him down by the fire. The hard stone floor is uncomfortable and Geralt shifts bitterly, trying to find some way to situate his aching body that doesn’t hurt worse. They’re alone or he would have perhaps considered asking Ciri to get him a cushion.

“Ow, fuck, Eskel, stop!” he snaps out of his thoughts when he feels hands on his leg, carefully kneading the sore muscles of his calf.

“I saw earlier, there’s just bruises left here, and those are mostly healed, too. You’re too tight just from walking down a hallway to stretch properly. Why didn’t you start working on getting your strength back sooner?” he chides gently. He stops what he’s doing and gently slips a hand under Geralt’s heel to lift his leg slightly and sees his brother wince. “Here, give me your hands again.”

Geralt complies and sees the way Eskel shifts in front of him and knows what’s coming. He sighs and does his best to swing open his legs, swallowing a whimper when Eskel presses his feet against his ankles, forcing his legs open just a little wider and pulling him into a gentle forward stretch. While Geralt hadn’t stretched like this in ages, he’s appalled by his own lack of flexibility. Eskel is right, his body is far too tight. “That hurts,” he whispers, ashamed to even be admitting it. The training masters would have simply forced him down further, made him stretch out until his body wouldn’t move any further. Eskel is barely pulling on him at all.

“Can you lean back and stretch me?”

“I think so.”

“Then do that,” Eskel says, swinging his own legs out so he’ll get something of a stretch even if Geralt can’t help much. He’s more interested in making Geralt use his core. “Lil’ more, please,” he says after a few moments, and feels Geralt tug some, deepening the stretch. After a few more breaths he pulls back, “That’s good, thanks.” They drop hands and Eskel rolls out his shoulders and neck. “Let me help you with your arms. I’ll take the weight, let them stay limp, alright?”

Geralt nods, chin drooping to his chest. This is more exercise than he’s done since arriving and he hates how quickly it’s burning him out. All the same, it’s relaxing and familiar to feel Eskel gently pull his arm back and bend it at the elbow, pushing upwards carefully until it’s too tight to go further. Out straight and away from his back, nice and gentle, then the other arm. The fire is warm and it’s all he can do to stay awake.

“Here, lie down, let’s get your legs done properly, then you can go to sleep in a bed.”

“Still more comfortable here than a cell,” Geralt agrees sleepily. He eases his body down flat on the hearthstones.

“I’m sure,” Eskel tries to maintain a neutral tone. A hand on Geralt’s knee, another on his heel, he brings his leg up gently, and then repeats it with the other one. When he’s done he notices Geralt has fallen asleep. When the scent of lilac and gooseberries strengthens in the air, he looks up. “He’s alright.”

“I know. Do you need help?”

“No.”

“It must be hard to see him like this. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve seen him in worse condition. Wasn't sure if he’d live or die after the trials. This is far better than I expected when I got your kestrel. No doubt he’ll make a full recovery.”

“I can’t imagine what would have been worse than what he looked like when we got him back.”

“I didn’t see him then. Took me a bit to get here once I got the bird. And I take it, it was a while before you sent one?”

“It’s been going on a month or so, if I’m being honest I’ve lost track of the days.”

“Sometimes, I wondered what he saw in you. Hearing rumors about you, and the both of you together. Four years and then he walks out. Your seeking out a way to cure yourself… futile as it is. I misjudged you. You really do love him. I’m sorry for having thought so poorly of you.”

“Most of the rumors were true, I’m sure,” Yennefer smiles at him. “But yes, I do.” She watches as Eskel carefully lifts Geralt into his arms, the smaller man barely reacting at all. “Was Kaer Morhen so bad?” she asks quietly. “He has dreams, sometimes. I’ve never wanted to ask, but now…”

“It could be. But no, it wasn’t all bad.” Eskel glances down at his sleeping brother, smiling slightly as he remembers a few of the better moments from their youth. "I'll get him in bed. And stay with him. I'm exhausted," he admits. "Road hard when I got the kestrel. Wanted to get here in case… in case he didn't make it. Seems like he'll be fine, though. Can't say as I would have slowed down any even knowing he was doing alright." 

"I don't want to see what you consider "not alright"," Yennefer says idly, fidgeting with her pendant. 

"No, you don't," he agrees. "I'm sure I'll see you soon, give my regards to the others. Tell Ciri I'll meet her at dawn in the courtyard again. It'll be good for her. I'll drag Geralt out to watch. Tell her to put on a good show," he smiles. 

"I'm sure she will." 

He heaves Geralt up a little higher in his arms and carries him back to bed. It's easy to settle him under the blankets. Eskel prepares himself for bed before sliding into bed alongside Geralt. He rolls onto his side, pressing his back into his friend. 

When Eskel wakes up, Geralt has rolled into him, face pressed into his shoulder blades. That doesn't bother him any, it's nothing new. Geralt had always been cuddly no matter how often the masters tried to beat it out of him. What does bother him, however, are the odd noises coming out of the other man. He half sits up and then rolls over, unsurprised to see tears and blood on Geralt's face. He had bitten through his lip again, another habit from childhood, trying not to cry out in his sleep. 

"Wake up, Wolf. Wake up," he shakes Geralt's shoulder. Usually he'd have given himself some distance in case his friend lashed out, but it seems safe now. Geralt's hardly at full strength. It takes a little jostling before Geralt snaps awake, thrusting both arms out from his body in an attempt to ward off an attack. 

"Eskel?" 

"I'm here."

"They didn't get you, too?"

"Who?" He asks in surprise. "Nilfgaard? No. Geralt. You're in the castle."

Geralt scrubs a hand across his face in the darkness, palm scraping over his stubble. "Hnn." 

"I know." He flops back down onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He glances at Geralt and sees him watching hesitantly. "C'mere,"' Eskel sighs, a smile twisting his scar. Arm out he waits until Geralt curls into him, head on his chest. Once they're both settled Eskel loops his arm around Geralt's shoulders. He ruffles his brother's hair once and smiles at the irritated growl he gets in response. 

Geralt shifts once or twice more, until he's got his ear over Eskel's heart so he can hear it beating. The steady drumming is comforting and drowns out the cacophony in his head. The warmth of his brother's arm around him grounds him as well as reassures, and he breathes out a relieved sigh. Eskel smells of home. Of pine trees and loam and icy streams, horse, and sweat, travel food, and metal. He's safe to sleep, and so he does, breathing deep and even. 

When Geralt wakes he aches worse than usual, but he feels better somehow. He nuzzles his face into the shirt under his cheek and freezes for a moment before Eskel's heavy palm shifts to his head, smoothing down his hair. He eases an arm around his brother's middle and curls closer, eyes drooping shut. He's been so tired. It feels so good to really sleep and to wake up safe. 

When the sun starts to rise Eskel stirs. Far less tired than his brother, he feels well rested and eager to move. Geralt protests sleepily as he pulls away to get out of bed. It takes Eskel a few minutes to disentangle himself from Geralt, and he snorts in amusement. He unhooks Geralt's fingers from his shirt for the third time and gets up quickly before Geralt can tangle them again. 

"I promised Ciri I would train with her. And that you would come watch, so get up." 

"Tell her you'll do it later," Geralt suggests. He doesn't mean that, he would rather die than disappoint her. He pushes himself up with a groan as he looks around blearily. "What did you do to me?" he complains, muscles screaming in protest. 

"Made you walk in circles and stretch," Eskel informs him. "You were there. If you don't remember then I have other things to worry about than your physical health." 

"I remember," he groans. "I just don't want to believe so little wore me out. " 

"Neither do I. Hurry up, let's not be late for Ciri." 

"We won't. Or you can go ahead and I'll catch up." 

"You won't get out of going that easily," Eskel helps steady him as he wobbles to his feet. "Have you got decent boots?"

"No," Geralt groans. He hates the soft slippers he's been stuck in. 

"Any good hunting around?" Eskel asks and then rolls his eyes at himself. "As if you've been paying any mind." 

"Leather takes time to cure," Geralt reminds him. 

"The way you've been going, we've got the time. Better to have something than nothing anyway. Besides, they didn't recover your armor or anything else. We'll have to make do until we can find somewhere to barter." 

"Hmm." 

Eskel pauses by the door to wrap Geralt in his cloak. He won't need it while he's sparring but he doesn't need Geralt freezing while he watches. 

"Stop fussing," Geralt shoves him away lightly. Eskel grins and hugs him briefly and ruffles his hair, then laughs when Geralt punches his arm. 

They walk out together, unsurprised to see Ciri already out in the courtyard practicing. She smiles broadly when she sees Geralt up on his feet. She hugs him carefully and he runs a hand over her hair. 

"Watch your temper," he reminds her seriously and she sticks out her tongue impishly in response. 

She and Eskel spar until Geralt is forced to sit on the steps by the door, too tired to stand. He watches critically, impressed. She's come a long way. By the time Eskel calls a halt Geralt is frozen. With the other witchers' help he manages to stand up and go back inside. 

Dandelion looks up when they come back in and smiles at Ciri, pleased to see her looking so happy. Her face is flushed with cold and success, and she rushes over to hug him. He looks up at Geralt from over her shoulder and finds himself frowning slightly. The witcher looks frozen half to death. When Geralt looks away Dandelion chooses not to say anything. 

"If I leave you with him a few moments will you be alright?" Eskel asks Geralt in an undertone. He waits until Geralt nods before he looks at the bard. "Get him by the fire and help him warm up." 

"Of course," Dandelion stands up and holds out his hands for Geralt's. "That alright by you?" He asks gently. Geralt nods and steps forward into Dandelion's hold. The bard helps him get close to the fire and sit. 

"Ciri, help me get some pillows and blankets," Eskel suggests after one last glance at the men by the fire. Geralt should be safe for a few minutes. 

"Can I hold you?" Dandelion asks cautiously. 

"Are you intending to yell again?"

"No, I shan't even speak except to ask a few more questions." 

"Then you may," Geralt agrees. 

"Your hands are like ice," the bard winces sympathetically. "Oh, my love. How are your feet?" 

"Blessedly numb," Geralt admits. He allows Dandelion to curl around him. He leans perpendicular to the bard's chest, and feels Dandelion put one leg behind him and another in front. 

"Here, put your legs overtop mine, if that's comfortable." 

It takes a few moments of shuffling but they settle and Geralt basks in the combined warmth of the fire and Dandelion's body. 

"The cloak is rather damp, can I remove it?" 

"Please." 

The bard carefully undoes the clasp and sets it aside on the floor. Geralt drops his head onto Dandelion's shoulder and allows the bard to chafe his hands. He stretches his feet out to the fire with a little sigh. 

"Is it alright if I kiss you?" 

"You don't have to ask." 

"I want to. And I'd like an answer."

"Yes. As long as I don't have to move." 

"You don't," he promises, kissing the top of Geralt's head. Once the witcher's hands are warm he presses gentle kisses to his palms and fingertips. When Geralt tries to shift Dandelion looks around to see what the problem is. He sees Ciri and Eskel coming back with arm fulls of blankets and cushions and smiles. "It's alright," he promises. "Just Eskel and Ciri." 

"I know," Geralt mutters. 

Dandelion shifts to take a cushion from Ciri and he helps Geralt shift onto it. Then he takes one for himself. Eskel passes him a blanket and he tucks it around Geralt, then when he hears a noise of protest, helps the witcher free his arms and rewraps it. 

"Comfortable, love?" 

"Mhmm." 

"Good," Dandelion smiles and kisses the side of Geralt's head again. Pleased to feel the other man starting to generate some heat of his own. Ciri and Eskel spread out blankets and pillows to create a comfortable resting area for all of them before going back to the table to fetch food. Dandelion is given his unfinished plate and he smiles gratefully. "If you want, I can shift and you can sit with Ciri or Eskel," he offers Geralt in a low voice. 

"No, I'd rather not move," he admits. "Or was that a polite way of asking me to go?" 

"I was just offering you a choice. I would much rather you sat with me," Dandelion reassures him. Pleased when Geralt nuzzles in closer, Dandelion reaches a hand up to smooth his messy curls. 

"Breakfast," Eskel pushes Geralt's legs open enough to sit between them. 

Geralt makes a face and pushes himself into Dandelion's side. 

"Let me try," the bard offers. Eskel shrugs and gets up to find food of his own. "Are you even a little hungry?" Dandelion asks Geralt quietly. Unsurprised when Geralt shakes his head he presses another kiss against Geralt's hair. "How about you eat just a little of it here and there?" He lifts up a piece of bacon and holds it up to Geralt's lips. "Please?" 

Geralt sighs and allows Dandelion to hand feed him bacon and some slices of pear. 

Ciri looks over and smiles, then turns to Eskel. "So spoiled he doesn't even have to feed himself anymore." 

"Let them be," Eskel tells her, softening his words with a smile. He reaches out and ruffles her hair. 

She wrinkles her nose at him and sticks her tongue out. Scooping up her porridge she flicks some off the end of her spoon at Eskel. 

Dandelion looks over and sincerely hopes their play won't extend to include him or Geralt. He's managed to get about half the plate of food into the tired witcher simply by teasing and wheedling and is hoping he can manage the rest before Geralt falls asleep on him. 

When it comes to the bowl of porridge Eskel had provided, liberally sweetened with honey and fortified with a handful of fruit, Geralt opts to feed himself. Being spoon fed feels like taking things too far. Dandelion finishes his own breakfast as Geralt eats. The bard finds himself humming contentedly as Geralt pushes his mostly empty plate and bowl away and leans back in close. 

Geralt dozes off, glad things feel better between them. 

Dandelion feels him wake again sometime later, lifting his head the way he does when Yennefer is around. Unsurprised to see the sorceress in his line of sight moments later, he pulls back enough to allow Geralt to look around. 

"Feeling better?" Yennefer asks him, walking over the mess of bedding on the floor carefully. She crouches next to him, and smiles tremulously when he tips his chin up for a kiss. He hasn't done that in months. She cups his cheeks and kisses him on the mouth. He smiles at her and she lightly runs her nails over the stubble on his cheeks and chin, knowing he hates how it itches. His eyes lid in pleasure at the attention and she kisses his forehead before pulling away. 

Next she goes to Ciri and hugs her tightly. "I'll be working some magic, I can't be disturbed until it's done." She kisses the girl's cheek. 

"You don't need help, do you?"

"No. And remember, only interrupt me if you absolutely must." 

"How long?"

"I don't know. Most of the day. Maybe more than one. I don't know." 

"Should I bring meals to you?"

"No," Yennefer smooths Ciri's hair gently. "I will be alright. Just remind Geralt I haven't abandoned him. You know how he likes to think we'd all leave him without a moment's notice." 

Ciri hugs her tightly. "I will." 

"Alright. Now let me tell him." She hugs her briefly and pulls away. "I think if I'm careful enough, I can keep us from being detected. If I'm wrong anyone comes, you do whatever Eskel tells you. Do you understand?"

Ciri frowns and feels genuine fear. "I won't leave you. Or Geralt or Dandelion. Every time we split up something awful happens. No more. I would rather die than be separated again."

Yennefer kisses her forehead rather than reply. She gets up and goes back to Geralt, shifting between his legs to kiss him gently on the lips. "I think I can heal your leg, I found some books in the library I haven't seen before. It's tricky magic and it might take me a while. It might take me all day or longer." She kisses him again, and he kisses her back, and then allows her to pepper his face with gentle kisses. She squeezes his thigh gently, rubbing a hand from his knee to hip slowly, ignoring Dandelion shifting around to accommodate them better without interrupting. 

Geralt pulls away from the poet far enough to hold his arms out to Yennefer and she gladly hugs him, kissing his cheek. They sit together for a minute or so, and she reluctantly pulls away. He sighs deeply, and then resettles himself back against Dandelion, seeking out warmth and comfort. He'd had so little of it recently. 

Ciri and Eskel resume playfighting and Dandelion and Geralt are happy to ignore them. Occasionally the bard glances up when he hears a grunt or woosh of air but overall he's more interested in occasionally pressing a kiss on Geralt's face or hair. It feels good to just hold him. 

Geralt nuzzles into him, trying to seek skin against his face. When he keeps rubbing up against the high collar of the bard's doublet he pulls away in frustration and tries to figure out how to undo it and get it loose. Ciri won't care if Dandelion's shirt is unfastened. Neither will Eskel. His fingers are stiff and clumsy and he can't undo the buttons or hooks and he whines in frustration, hands scrabbling at the fabric. 

"What's wrong?" Dandelion asks, concerned. He looks down to see Geralt frantically pawing at his shirt. "I can take it off," he says quickly, replacing Geralt's hands with his own and quickly undoing his doublet and shrugging it off. "Here, it's alright, was it scratching you?" He pulls Geralt back against his chest and the witcher rubs his face across the poet's skin contentedly. The rasp of hair across his stubble feels good and Geralt takes full advantage of the low collar of the undershirt. 

"That's better then?" Dandelion asks Geralt worriedly with a glance at Eskel who is watching them with some concern. He continues to stroke Geralt's hair as he feels him snuggle in closer. When sometime later he feels Geralt yawn against his chest, jaw cracking, he starts to shift them down on the pillows. "Let's just get you settled into sleep more comfortably," Dandelion suggests. 

Geralt goes rigid in his arms when he feels himself being lowered down to the bedding. He moans low in his throat, not wanting to live through this again. Eyes squeezed shut he doesn't seen Dandelion's worried face peering at him or the way Eskel and Ciri pause in their wrestling. 

Eskel had completely pinned her to the ground and was trying to teach her ways out of various holds, but now they both freeze and look towards Geralt with concern. 

Geralt pushes away from the bard, turning his face away and ignoring Dandelion saying his name trying to get his attention. While the witcher isn't putting up much of a fight, he does softly plead, "please don't." 

Concerned Eskel releases Ciri and comes over to help Dandelion. The Witcher girl gets up to get water and to avoid the situation. She doesn't want to see Geralt like this. But she knows she can be helpful by making sure they have what they need for him. 

Eskel bodily hauls Geralt against him hoping the change will snap Geralt out of it. "Enough of that, that's not going to happen here," Eskel tells him firmly as Dandelion watches in horror. "No one's going to do that."

"It's me," the bard says miserably. "It's something to do with me. He keeps thinking I'm going to … I would never. He only reacts like this to me." 

Eskel looked up sharply, “Don't make a fuss, bard. This isn't about you. He was half asleep and his mind got confused, that's all it was,” he looked down at Geralt, “It's alright, Geralt, it's just the bard. He wasn't going to hurt you.”

Dandelion continues to make eye contact with Geralt, holding his gaze. "It's true. I just thought you would want to rest, love, that's all." 

Geralt warily looks back over his shoulder at Eskel who nods encouragingly. "Dandelion, why don't you lie down, and I'll settle him down with you." 

The poet nods, face tight as he moves away from the flames and resettles pillows and blankets to make a comfortable place to lie down. He settles himself and rubs his eyes to wipe away the tears. With Eskel's encouragement Geralt resettles comfortably against Dandelion's chest. He hesitantly presses a kiss against Dandelion's collarbone, unsure what to do. He just knows words escape him and he feels lost and tired. 

"It's alright, Geralt," Dandelion promises gently. 

"I'm sorry," he says after a pause, tongue freed. 

"I would never do that to you, never. I love you." 

"I know," Geralt says softly, hiding his face in the bard's chest. 

"Geralt, you never have to touch me like that, or consent to be touched like that, ever again. I never followed you or befriended you because of what we could do in a bed together. If the most we do is this, right here, right now, I would still stay with you to the end of my days. Do you understand? Our relationship, our friendship, it has nothing to do with our bodies. I promise you." 

"You love sex, Dandelion. Your second most important personality trait is lecher," Geralt tries to tease. "Then next, womanizer, and then liar. Of course, lest I forget, your primary personality trait is cynic."

"Geralt I can go without sex," Dandelion protests gently, and feels his heart sink when Geralt snorts in derision. "Geralt, I haven't been in the mood since you were taken. No one is here but us and you know damn well Yennefer won't touch me that way. Sex isn't everything. It isn't a requirement of mine to survive. It's been … oh, I don't even, how long's… it's been months, Geralt. If I couldn't manage not dipping my cock in people I wouldn't still be here. You're why I'm still here, and it's not that I hold out hope of fucking you." He looks at Eskel and knows he's beet red. Of all the audiences to have, he supposes it could be worse. Either way he still wishes he could have this conversation in private. 

"I don't understand," Geralt whispers. "That's the only reason you've ever pursued anyone, or half the reason you write any songs you do. It's all about keeping your cock wet." 

"That's not entirely true," the bard stutters. "I do have friends Geralt. I don't befriend people with the intent to fuck them. I got lucky that befriending you led to more, but if they hurt you so badly you can't stand the idea, then that's what it is. I intend to be with you until you don't want me."

"But you don't want me," Geralt points out, not understanding. He wants to, but none of it makes any sense. In the decades he's known the poet Dandelion barely spends any time with one person. It had been a miracle occurrence he had stayed faithful as long as he has. Of course if he just wishes to be as friends again, Geralt doesn't blame him. He knows he's more scarred and less muscled and harder to love. 

"Why must you always twist what I say?" Dandelion asks in exasperation. "Geralt. I never said I didn't still find you desirable. I simply said if you didn't want to share my bed you didn't have to." He looks at Eskel pleadingly, unsure of what to do. 

The witcher moves in slowly, not sure what to do either. He's deeply uncomfortable and can tell this conversation is an old one between the lovers. "Geralt," Eskel wishes he had the mutation that would prevent blushing, and knows his face is red as an apple. "He's just asking you to do as you please. That's all." 

Geralt huffs and shrugs. "What I want rarely matters," he mutters into Dandelion's chest, deeply uncomfortable. 

Eskel and Dandelion stare at each other helplessly for a few moments. 

Dandelion licks his lips uncomfortably before speaking. "Ah, well. Uhm, Geralt. What would you like, then? I suppose I haven't asked that yet. Stupid of me, really. Not to ask. I had thought you wished to forego … our usual activities… well they weren't usual, really," he stammers, looking away from Eskel. "But I thought you had made it clear you wanted our relationship to exclude sex acts until you felt more … felt better … you haven't even spent much time near me in general and I've told you I won't push myself on you…especially not after what happened to you. I… the idea of making you feel like that again makes me sick inside." He lightly runs his fingers through Geralt's hair, untangling a few mussed curls. 

"I don't want you to leave, or be angry," Geralt admits in a strangled voice barely above a whisper. 

"I don't intend to," Dandelion promises him. "I have rarely been angry with you Geralt. I can't be angry at you for suffering abuse and living. If you had died I would have never forgiven you. I love you very much. I wouldn't travel around risking my neck or planning how to make sure I die in Ciri's place should the need arise if I intended to abandon you." As he speaks the bard keeps his hand moving over Geralt's arm and shoulder, occasionally slipping back up into his hair. "What else?" 

Geralt draws a shuddering breath in, surprised and ashamed of his answer. He turns in Dandelion's arms to look at Eskel, half wishing somehow he could fix it all. Shame suffuses him and he considers the question carefully. "If ifs and ands were pots and pans," he mutters, "I would want nothing to have changed between us. I would want everything to be as it was." 

Eskel surprises himself by moving in close enough to tug Geralt's legs across his own. The white haired witcher still rests himself comfortably against his lover's chest, unbothered by the change. He doesn't care when Eskel chafes his ankles, grimacing at the new scar tissue wrapping around both. Some of it will fade, but the marks will always remain. Eskel would rather not be privy to these kinds of private conversations but he would do anything to help keep Geralt alive. Better to have him and be forced to listen to awkward pillow talk than to be burying him. 

"I would want to be strong again, able to defend you and Ciri and myself. I would want to not be so tired," his breathing hitches lightly. "I want to feel like myself again, Dandelion. I want to stop feeling sick to my stomach when I think about what I let them do-"

"Geralt, you didn't let them do anything. They are the only ones responsible for any part of what you went through. I know you killed several of them, tried to escape at least once … no, love, don't think about it like that." 

Eskel privately agrees with the poet's sentiments. Clearly none of this had been a choice. "We'll get your strength built back up," Eskel tells Geralt carefully. "I'm here, we'll train together until you're fighting fit." 

"You've held your head up, you've long fought alone, you bear the scars. You were alone too long, I know. That's over now. You have us all. Eskel and Ciri and Yennefer and I? We're all here. You don't have to be alone with this. Which means you don't have to be afraid. We'll help you get back on your feet," Dandelion promises. "And one day, you will feel like yourself again." He kisses Geralt's forehead tenderly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see fic more often, check me out on tumblr, the hospital bills continue to magically appear and I have a post linking a way to help me out. 
> 
> I am officially quarantined, so I'm losing out on some income from 2 jobs thanks to the third, fml. Thanks CDC for making it 10 days not 14 because really I couldn't afford that income loss. But here we go. 
> 
> Thanks to those of you who commented on the past chapter. I'd like to try and update more regularly since I no longer have a commute for 10 days, but I'm kind of in a slump where I need some kind of encouragement here that this is worth it. Pitiful or not, I'm just over this whole quarantine. I miss my partner, I miss my best friends... I'm whining... I'm whining, lol. Anyway. Comments are loved, always. Thank you guys.


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